UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


THE  GIFT  OF 

MAY  TREAT  MORRISON 

IN  MEMORY  OF 

ALEXANDER  F  MORRISON 


T II E 


POEMS 


01 


ADELAIDE    A.   PKOCTER, 


COMPLETE  EDITION. 


AVITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


BOSTON: 
JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  AND   COMPANY, 

LATE  TICKXOR  &  FIELDS,  AND  FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  &  Co. 

1873. 


AUTHOR'S  EDITION. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS:  WELCH,  BIGELOW,  &  Co., 
CAMBRIDGE. 


427873 


AN    INTKODUCTION". 


BY    CHARLES    DICKENS. 


,  tr 
^be 
^B 


Jx  the  spring  of  the  year  1853, 
I  observed,  as  conductor  of  the 
weekly  journal,  HOUSEHOLD 
WORDS,  a  short  poem  among  the 
proffered  contributions,  very  dif- 
ferent, as  I  thought,  from  the 
shoal  of  verses  perpetually  set- 
ting through  the  office  of  such  a 
periodical,  and  possessing  much 
more  merit.  Its  authoress  was 
quite  unknown  to  me.  She  was 
one  Miss  MARY  BERWICK, 
whom  I  had  never  heard  of;  and 
she  was  to  be  addressed  by  let- 
ter,  if  addressed  at  all,  at  a  cir- 
culating  library  in  the  western 
district  of  London.  Through 
this  channel,  Miss  Berwick  was 
informed  that  her  poem  was  ac- 
cepted, and  was  invited  to  send 
another.  She  complied,  and  be- 
rame  a  regular  and  frequent  con- 
tributor.  Many  letters  passed 
between  the  journal  and  Miss 
erwick,  but  Miss  Berwick  her- 
self  was  never  seen. 

How   we  came  gradually   to 
establish,  at  the  office  of  House- 


hold Words,  that  we  knew  all 
about  Miss  Berwick,  I  have  nev- 
er discovered.  But,  we  settled 
somehow,  to  our  complete  satis- 
faction, that  she  was  governess 
in  a  family ;  that  she  went  to 
Italy  in  that  capacity,  and  re- 
turned ;  and  that  she  had  long 
been  in  the  same  family.  Wo 
really  knew  nothing  whatever 
of  her,  except  that  she  was  re- 
markably business-like,  punctual, 
self-reliant,  and  reliable :  so  I 
suppose  we  insensibly  invented 
the  rest.  For  myself,  my  moth- 
er was  not  a  more  real  person- 
age to  me,  than  Miss  Berwick 
the  governess  became. 

This  went  on  until  December, 
1854,  when  the  Christmas  num- 
ber, entitled  The  Seven  Poor 
Travellers,  was  sent  to  press. 
Happening  to  be  going  to  dine 
that  day  with  an  old  and  dear 
friend,  distinguished  in  literature 
as  BARRY  CORNWALL,  I  took 
with  me  an  early  proof  of  that 
number,  and  remarked,  as  I 


IV 


INTRODUCTION. 


laid  it  on  the  drawing-room  ta- 
ble, that  it  contained  a  very 
pretty  poem,  written  by  a  cer- 
tain Miss  Berwick.  Next  day 
brought  me  the  disclosure  that  I 
had  so  spoken  of  the  poem  to 
the  mother  of  its  writer,  in  its 
writer's  presence ;  that  I  had  no 
such  correspondent  in  existence 
as  Miss  Berwick ;  and  that  the 
name  had  been  assumed  by  Bar- 
ry Cornwall's  eldest  daughter, 
Miss  ADELAIDE  ANNE  PROC- 
TER. 

The  anecdote  I  have  here  not- 
ed down,  besides  serving  to  ex- 
plain why  the  parents  of  the  late 
Miss  Procter  have  looked  to  me 
for  these  poor  words  of  remem- 
brance of  their  lamented  child, 
strikingly  illustrates  the  hon- 
esty, independence,  and  quiet 
dignity  of  the  lady's  character. 
I  had  known  her  when  she  was 
very  young ;  I  had  been  hon- 
ored with  her  father's  friendship 
when  I  was  myself  a  young  as- 
pirant ;  and  she  had  said  at 
home,  "  If  I  send  him,  in  my 
own  name,  verses  that  he  does 
not  honestly  like,  either  it  will  be 
very  painful  to  him  to  return 
them,  or  he  will  print  them  for 
papa's  sake,  and  not  for  their 
own.  So  I  have  made  up  my 
mind  to  take  my  chance  fairly 
with  the  unknown  volunteers." 

Perhaps  it  requires  an  edi- 
tor's experience  of  the  profound- 
ly unreasonable  grounds  on 


which  he  is  often  urged  to  ac- 
cept unsuitable  articles — such 
as  having  been  to  school  with 
the  writer's  husband's  broih- 
er-in-law,  or  having  lent  an  al- 
penstock in  Switzerland  to  tlic 
writer's  wife's  nephew,  when 
that  interesting  stranger  had 
broken  his  own —  fully  to  appre- 
ciate the  delicacy  and  the  self- 
respect  of  this  resolution. 

Some  verses  by  Miss  Procter 
had  been  published  in  the  Booic 
OF  BEAUTY,  ten  years  before 
she  became  Miss  Berwick.  With 
the  exception  of  two  poems  in 
the  CORNHILL  MAGAZINE,  two 
in  GOOD  WORDS,  and  others  in 
a  little  book  called  A  CHAPLET 
OF  VERSES  (issued  in  1862  for 
the  benefit  of  a  Night  .Refuge), 
her  published  writings  first  ap- 
peared in  HOUSEHOLD  WORDS, 
or  ALL  THE  YEAR  KOUND. 
The  present  edition  contains 
the  whole  of  her  Legends  and 
Lyrics,  and  originates  in  the 
great  favor  with  which  they 
have  been  received  by  the  pub- 
lic. 

Miss  Procter  was  born  in  Bed- 
ford Square,  London,  on  the 
30th  of  October,  1825.  Her 
love  of  poetry  was  conspicuous 
at  so  early  an  age,  that  I  have 
before  me  a  tiny  album  made 
of  small  note-paper,  into  which 
her  favorite  passages  were  cop- 
ied for  her  by  her  mother's  hand 
before  she  herself  could  write. 


INTRODUCTION. 


It  looks  as  if  she  had  carried  it 
about  as  another  little  girl  might 
have  carried  a  doll.  She  soon 
displayed  a  remarkable  memory, 
and  great  quickness  of  apprehen- 
sion. When  she  was  quite  a 
y<mn_c  child,  she  learnt  with  fa- 
cility several  of  the  problems  of 
Euclid.  As  she  grew  older,  she 
acquired  the  French,  Italian,  and 
German  languages,  became  a 
clever  piano-forte  player,  and 
showed  a  true  taste  and  senti- 
ment in  drawing.  But,  as  soon 
as  she  had  completely  vanquished 
the  difficulties  of  any  one  branch 
of  study,  it  was  her  way  to  lose 
interest  in  it,  and  pass  to  an- 
other. "While  her  mental  re- 
sources were  being  trained,  it  was 
not  at  all  suspected  in  her  family 
that  she  had  any  gift  of  author- 
ship, or  any  ambition  to  become 
a  writer.  Her  father  had  no 
idea  of  her  having  ever  attempted 
to  turn  a  rhyme,  until  her  first 
little  poem  saw  the  light  in 
print. 

When  she  attained  to  woman- 
hood, she  had  read  an  extraor- 
dinary number  of  books,  and 
throughout  her  life  she  was  al- 
ways largely  adding  to  the  num- 
ber. In  1853  she  went  to  Turin 
and  its  neighborhood,  on  a  visit 
to  her  aunt,  a  Roman  Catholic 
lady.  As  Miss  Procter  had  her- 
self professed  the  Roman  Catho- 
lic faith  two  years  before,  she 
entered  with  the  greater  ardor 


on  the  study  of  the  Piedmontese 
dialect,  and  the  observation  of 
the  habits  and  manners  of  the 
peasantry.  In  the  former,  she 
soon  became  a  proficient.  On 
the  latter  head,  I  extract  from 
her  familiar  letters,  written  home 
to  England  at  the  time,  two 
pleasant  pieces  of  description. 

A  BETROTHAL. 

"  We  have  been  to  a  ball,  of 
which  I  must  give  you  a  descrip- 
tion. Last  Tuesday  we  had  just 
done  dinner  at  about  seven,  and 
stepped  out  into  the  balcony  to 
look  at  the  remains  of  the  sun- 
set behind  the  mountains,  when 
we  heard  very  distinctly  a  hand 
of  music,  which  rather  excited 
my  astonishment,  as  a  solitary 
organ  is  the  utmost  that  toils  up 
here.  I  went  out  of  the  room 
for  a  few  minutes,  and,  on  my 
returning,  Emily  said,  '  Oh  !  that 
band  is  playing  at  the  farmer's 
near  here.  The  daughter  is 
fiancee  to-day,  and  they  have  a 
ball.'  I  said,  '  I  wish  I  was 
going  !  '  '  Well,'  replied  she, 
'  the  farmer's  wife  did  call  to 
invite  us.'  '  Then  I  shall  cer- 
tainly go,'  I  exclaimed.  I  ap- 
plied to  Madame  B.,  who  said 
she  would  like  it  very  much, 
and  we  had  better  go,  children 
and  all.  Some  of  the  servants 
were  already  gone.  We  rushed 
away  to  put  on  some  shawls, 


VI 


INTRODUCTION. 


and  put  off  any  shred  of  black 
we  might  have  about  us  (as  tlie 
people  would  have  been  quite 
annoyed  if  we  had  appeared  on 
such  an  occasion  with  any 
black),  and  we  started.  When 
we  reached  the  farmer's,  which 
is  a  stone's  throw  above  our 
house,  we  were  received  with 
great  enthusiasm  ;  the  only  draw- 
back being  that  no  one  spoke 
French,  and  we  did  not  yet  speak 
Piedmontese.  We  were  placed 
on  a  bench  against  the  wall,  and 
the  people  went  on  dancing. 
The  room  was  a  large  white- 
washed kitchen  (I  suppose),  with 
several  large  pictures  in  black 
frames,  and  very  smoky.  I  dis- 
tinguished the  Martyrdom  of 
Saint  Sebastian,  and  the  others 
appeared  equally  lively  and  ap- 
propriate subjects.  Whether 
they  were  Old  Masters  or  not, 
and  if  so,  by  whom,  I  could  not 
ascertain.  The  band  were  seated 
opposite  us.  Five  men,  with 
wind-instruments,  part  of  the 
band  of  the  National  Guard, 
to  which  the  farmer's  sons  be- 
long. They  played  really  ad- 
mirably, and  I  began  to  be  afraid 
that  some  idea  of  our  dignity 
would  prevent  my  getting  a  part- 
ner ;  so,  by  Madame  B.'s  advice, 
I  went  up  to  the  bride,  and  offered 
to  dance  with  her.  Such  a  hand- 
some young  woman  !  Like  one 
of  Uwins's  pictures.  Very  dark, 
with  a  quantity  of  black  hair, 


and  on  an  immense  scale.  The 
children  were  already  dancing, 
as  well  as  the  maids.  After  we 
came  to  an  end  of  our  dance, 
which  was  what  they  call  a 
Polka-Mazourka,  I  saw  the  bride 
trying  to  screw  up  the  courage 
of  hcrjianctf  to  ask  me  to  dance, 
which  after  a  little  hesitation  he 
did.  And  admirably  he  danced, 
as  indeed  they  all  did,  —  in  ex- 
cellent time,  and  with  a  little 
more  spirit  than  one  sees  in  a 
ball-room.  In  fact,  they  were 
very  like  one's  ordinary  partners, 
except  that  they  wore  car-rings 
and  were  in  their  shirt-sleeves, 
and  truth  compels  me  to  state 
that  they  decidedly  smelt  of  gar- 
lic. Some  of  them  had  been 
smoking,  but  threw  away  their 
cigars  when  we  came  in.  The 
only  thing  that  did  not  look 
cheerful  was,  that  the  room  was 
only  lighted  by  two  or  three  oil- 
lamps,  and  that  there  seemed  to 
be  no  preparation  for  refresh- 
ments. Madame  B.,  seeing  this, 
whispered  to  her  maid,  who  dis- 
engaged herself  from  her  part- 
ner, and  ran  off  to  the  house ; 
she  and  the  kitchen-maid  pres- 
ently returning  with  a  large  tray 
covered  with  all  kinds  of  cakes 
(of  which  we  are  great  consum- 
ers and  always  have  a  stock), 
and  a  large  hamper  full  of  bot- 
tles of  wine,  with  coffee  and 
sugar.  This  seemed  all  very 
acceptable.  The  Jiancte  was 


INTRODUCTION. 


Vll 


requested  to  distribute  the  eata- 
bles, and  a  bucket  of  water  being 
produced  to  wash  the  glasses  in, 
the  wine  disappeared  very  quick- 
ly, —  as  fast  as  they  could  open 
the  bottles.  But,  elated  I  sup- 
pose by  this,  the  floor  was  sprin- 
kled with  water,  and  the  mu- 
sicians played  a  Monferrino, 
which  is  a  Piedmontese  dance. 
Madame  B.  danced  with  the 
farmer's  son,  and  Emily  with 
another  distinguished  member  of 
the  company.  It  was  very  fatigu- 
ing,—  something  like  a  Scotch 
reel.  My  partner  was  a  little 
man,  like  Perrot,  and  very  proud 
of  his  dancing.  He  cut  in  the 
air  and  twisted  about,  until  I 
was  out  of  breath,  though  my 
attempts  to  imitate  him  were 
feeble  in  the  extreme.  At  last, 
after  seven  or  eight  dances,  I  was 
obliged  to  sit  down.  We  stayed 
till  nine,  and  I  was  so  dead  beat 
with  the  heat  that  I  could  hardly 
crawl  about  the  house,  and  in 
an  agony  with  the  cramp,  it  is 
so  long  since  I  have  danced." 

A  MARRIAGE. 

"  The  wedding  of  the  farmer's 
daughter  has  taken  place.  We 
had  hoped  it  would  have  been  in 
the  little  chapel  of  our  house, 
but  it  seems  some  special  per- 
mission was  necessary,  and  they 
applied  for  it  too  late.  They  all 
said,  '  This  is  the  Constitution. 


There  would  have  been  no  diffi- 
culty before  ! '  the  lower  classes 
making  the  poor  Constitution 
the  scape-goat  for  everything  they 
don't  like.  So,  as  it  was  impos- 
sible for  us  to  climb  up  to  the 
church  where  the  wedding  was 
to  be,  we  contented  ourselves 
with  seeing  the  procession  pass. 
It  was  not  a  very  large  one,  for, 
it  requiring  some  activity  to  go 
up,  all  the  old  people  remained 
at  home.  It  is  not  the  etiquette 
for  the  bride's  mother  to  go,  and 
no  unmarried  woman  can  go  to 
a  wedding,  —  I  suppose  for  fear 
of  its  making  her  discontented 
with  her  own  position.  The 
procession  stopped  at  our  door, 
for  the  bride  to  receive  our  con- 
gratulations. She  was  dressed 
in  a  shot  silk,  with  a  yellow 
handkerchief,  and  rows  of  a 
large  gold  chain.  In  the  after- 
noon they  sent  to  request  us  to 
go  there.  On  our  arrival  we 
found  them  dancing  out  of  doors, 
and  a  most  melancholy  affair  it 
was.  All  the  bride's  sisters  were 
not  to  be  recognized,  they  had 
cried  so.  The  mother  sat  in  the 
house,  and  could  not  appear. 
And  the  bride  was  sobbing  so 
she  could  hardly  stand  !  The 
most  melancholy  spectacle  of  all 
to  my  mind  was,  that  the  bride- 
groom was  decidedly  tipsy.  He 
seemed  rather  affronted  at  all  the 
distress.  We  danced  a  Monfer- 
rino ;  I  with  the  bridegroom, 


via 


INTRODUCTION. 


and  the  bride  crying  the  whole 
time.  The  company  did  their 
utmost  to  enliven  her  by  firing 
pistols,  but  without  success,  and 
at  last  they  began  a  series  of 
yells  which  reminded  me  of  a 
set  of  savages.  But  even  this 
delicate  method  of  consolation 
failed,  and  the  wishing  good-by 
began.  It  was  altogether  so 
melancholy  an  affair  that  Ma- 
dame B.  dropped  a  few  tears,  and 
I  was  very  near  it,  particularly 
when  the  poor  mother  came  out 
to  see  the  last  of  her  daughter, 
who  was  finally  dragged  off  be- 
tween her  brother  and  uncle,  with 
a  last  explosion  of  pistols.  As 
she  lives  quite  near,  makes  an 
excellent  match,  and  is  one  of 
nine  children,  it  really  was  a 
most  desirable  marriage,  in  spite 
of  all  the  show  of  distress.  Al- 
bert was  so  discomfited  by  it, 
that  he  forgot  to  kiss  the  bride 
as  he  had  intended  to  do,  and 
therefore  went  to  call  upon  her 
yesterday,  and  found  her  very 
smiling  in  her  new  house,  and 
supplied  the  omission.  The 
cook  came  home  from  the  wed- 
ding, declaring  she  was  cured 
of  any  wish  to  marry ;  but  I 
would  not  recommend  any  man 
to  act  upon  that  threat  and  make 
her  an  offer.  In  a  couple  of 
days  we  had  some  rolls  of  the 
bride's  first  baking,  which  they 
call  Madonna's.  The  musicians, 
it  seems,  were  iu  the  same  state 


as  the  bridegroom,  for,  in  escort- 
ing her  home,  they  all  fell  down 
in  the  mud.  My  wrath  against 
the  bridegroom  is  somewhat 
calmed  by  finding  that  it  is  con- 
sidered bad  luck  if  he  docs  not 
get  tipsy  at  his  wedding." 

Those  readers  of  Miss  Proc- 
ter's poems  who  should  suppose 
from  their  tone  that  her  mind 
was  of  a  gloomy  or  despondent 
cast  would  be  curiously  mistaken. 
She  was  exceedingly  humorous, 
and  had  a  great  delight  in  hu- 
mor. Cheerfulness  was  habitual 
with  her,  she  was  very  ready  at 
a  sally  or  a  reply,  and  in  her 
laugh  (as  I  remember  wefl)  there 
was  an  unusual  vivacity,  enjoy- 
ment, and  sense  of  drollery.  She 
was  perfectly  unconstrained  and 
unaffected :  as  modestly  silent 
about  her  productions  as  she 
was  generous  with  their  pecuni- 
ary results.  She  was  a  friend 
who  inspired  the  strongest  at- 
tachments ;  she  was  a  finely  sym- 
pathetic woman,  with  a  great 
accordant  heart  and  a  sterling 
noble  nature.  No  claim  can  be 
set  up  for  her,  thank  God,  to  the 
possession  of  any  of  the  conven- 
tional poetical  qualities.  She 
never  by  any  means  held  the 
opinion  that  she  was  among  the 
greatest  of  human  beings  ;  she 
never  suspected  the  existence  of 
a  conspiracy  on  the  part  of  man- 
kind against  her  ;  she  never  rec- 


INTRODUCTION. 


ognizcd  in  her  best  friends  her 
worst  enemies  ;  she  never  culti- 
vated the  luxury  of  being  misun- 
derstood and  unappreciated ;  she 
woul  1  far  rather  have  died  with- 
out seeing  a  line  of  her  compo- 
sition in  print,  than  that  I  should 
have  maundered  about  her,  here, 
as  "  the  Poet,"  or  "  the  Poet- 
ess." 

With  the  recollection  of  Miss 
Procter  as  a  mere  child  and  as  a 
woman  fresh  upon  me,  it  is  nat- 
ural that  I  should  linger  on  my 
way  to  the  close  of  this  brief 
record,  avoiding  its  end.  But, 
even  as  the  close  came  upon  her, 
so  must  it  come  here. 

Always  impelled  by  an  intense 
conviction  that  her  life  must  not 
be  dreamed  away,  and  that  her 
indulgence  in  her  favorite  pur- 
suits must  be  balanced  by  action 
in  the  real  world  around  her, 
she  was  indefatigable  in  her  en- 
deavors to  do  some  good.  Nat- 
urally enthusiastic,  and  conscien- 
tiously impressed  with  a  deep 
sense  of  her  Christian  duty  to 
her  neighbor,  she  devoted  herself 
to  a  variety  of  benevolent  objects. 
Now,  it  was  the  visitation  of  the 
sick  that  had  possession  of  her; 
now,  it  was  the  sheltering  of  the 
houseless  ;  now,  it  was  the  ele- 
mentary teaching  of  the  densely 
ignorant;  now,  it  was  the  raising 
up  of  those  who  had  wandered 
and  got  trodden  under  foot  ; 
now,  it  was  the  wider  employ- 


ment of  her  own  sex  in  the  gen- 
eral business  of  life ;  now,  it  was 
all  these  things  at  once.  Per- 
fectly unselfish,  swift  to  sympa- 
thize and  eager  to  relieve,  she 
wrought  at  such  designs  with  a 
flushed  earnestness  that  disre- 
garded season,  weather,  time  of 
day  or  night,  food,  rest.  Under 
such  a  hurry  of  the  spirits,  and 
such  incessant  occupation,  the 
strongest  constitution  will  com- 
monly go  down.  Hers,  neither 
of  the  strongest  nor  the  weak- 
est, yielded  to  the  burden,  and 
began  to  sink. 

To  have  saved  her  life,  then, 
by  taking  action  on  the  warning 
that  shone  in  her  eyes  and 
sounded  in  her  voice,  would 
have  been  impossible  without 
changing  her  nature.  As  long 
as  the  power  of  moving  about 
in  the  old  way  was  left  to  her, 
she  must  exercise  it,  or  be  killed 
by  the  restraint.  And  so  the 
time  came  when  she  could  move 
about  no  longer,  and  took  to  her 
bed. 

All  the  restlessness  gone  then, 
and  all  the  sweet  patience  of  her 
natural  disposition  purified  by 
the  resignation  of  her  soul,  she 
lay  upon  her  bed  through  the 
whole  round  of  changes  of  the 
seasons.  She  lay  upon  her  bed 
through  fifteen  months.  In  all 
that  time,  her  old  cheerfulness 
never  quitted  her.  In  all  that 
time,  not  an  impatient  or  a  quer- 


INTRODUCTION. 


ulous  minute  can  be  remem- 
bered. 

At  length,  at  midnight  on  the 
2d  of  February,  1864,  she  turned 
down  a  leaf  of  a  little  book  she 
was  reading,  and  shut  it  up. 

The  ministering  hand  that  had 
copied  the  verses  into  the  tiny 
album  was  soon  around  her  neck, 
and  she  quietly  asked,  as  the 
clock  was  on  the  stroke  of  one : 
"  Do  you  think  I  am  dying, 
mamma  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  are  very,  very 
ill  to-night,  my  dear." 

"  Send  for  my  sister.  My 
feet  are  so  cold.  Lift  me  up  !  " 

Her    sister  entering  as   they 


raised   her,  she   said :  "  It   Los 
come   at  last ! "     And   with   a 
bright  and  happy  smile  looked 
upward,  and  departed. 
Well  had  she  written :  — 

Why  shouldst  them  fear  the  beautiful 

angel,  Death, 
Who  waits  thee  at  the  portals  of  the 

skies, 
Ready   to   kiss    away    thy    struggling 

breath. 
Ready  with  gentle  hand  to  close  thine 

eyes? 

Oh,  what  were  life,  if  life  were  all? 

Thine  eyes 
Are  blinded  by   their  tears,  or  thou 

wouldst  see 
Thy  treasures  wait  thee  in  the  far-off 

skies, 
And  Death,  thy  friend,  will  give  them 

all  to  thee. 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

INTRODUCTION iii 

LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS.    A  BOOK  OF  VERSES. 
FIRST  SEBIES. 

THE  ANGEL'S  STORT 1 

ECHOES .       .        .       .       .  6 

A  FALSE  GENITS 6 

MY  PICTURE 6 

JUDGE  NOT 7 

FRIEND  SORROW 8 

OXE  BY  OXE 8 

TRITE  HONORS • 9 

A  WOMAN'S  QUESTION It 

THE  THREE  RULERS 15 

A  DEAD  PAST 16 

A  DOUBTING  HEART 16 

A  STUDENT 17 

A  KNIGHT-ERRANT 18 

LINGER,  0  GENTLE  TIME 19 

HOMEWARD  BOUND        19 

LIKE  AND  DEATH 2-t 

Now 25 

CLEANSING  FIRES 25 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  WIND 26 

TREASURES 27 

SHINING  STARS 2-j 

WAITING 28 

THE  CRADLE-SONG  OF  THE  POOK 29 


xii  CONTENTS. 

BE  STRONG 30 

GOD'S  GIFTS 31 

A  TOMB  IN  GHENT 32 

THE  ANGET,  OF  DEATH 39 

A  DREAM 40 

I.IE  PRESENT 41 

CHANGES. 41 

STRIVE,  WAIT,  AND  PRAT 41 

A  LAMENT  FOR  THE  SUMMER 43 

THE  UNKNOWN  GRAVE 43 

GIVE  ME  THY  HEART ' l"> 

THE  WAYSIDE  INN 45 

VOICES  OF  THE  PAST 48 

THE  DARK  SIDE 43 

A  FIRST  SORROW 49 

MURMURS 49 

GIVE " 50 

MY  JOURNAL 50 

A  CHAIN 52 

THE  PILGRIMS 53 

INCOMPLETENESS    .        .       .       .  • 53 

A  LEGEND  OF  BEEGENZ 5-1 

A  FAREWELL 57 

SOWING  AND  REAPING 57 

THE  STORM 58 

WORDS 59 

A  LOVE  TOKEN GO 

A  TRYST  WITH  DEATH 60 

FIDELIS 61 

A  SHADOW 62 

THE  SAILOR  BOY 62 

A  CROWN  OF  SORROW 71 

THE  LESSON  OF  THE  WAR 71 

THE  Two  SPIRITS • 72 

A  LITTLE  LONGER 7 1 

GRIEF 75 

THE  TRIUMPH  OF  TIME 77 

A  PARTING 7s 

THK  GOLDEN  GATE 79 

PHANTOMS 80 

TlIANKFULNESS           .           .  80 


CONTENTS.  xtii 

IIOMK-SlCKNESS 81 

WISHES 82 

THE  PEACE  OP  GOD 83 

LIFK  IN  DEATH  AND  DEATH  IN  LIFE 83 

RECOLLECTIONS          86 

ILLUSION 87 

A  VISION 88 

PICTURES  IN  THE  FIRE 89 

THE  SETTLERS 90 

HUSH! 91 

HOURS .               93 

THE  Two  INTERPRETERS 93 

COMFORT 91 

HOME  AT  LAST 95 

UNEXPRESSED i      .  96 

BECAUSE 97 

REST  AT  EVENING 97 

A  RETROSPECT 98 

TRUE  OR  FALSE 99 

GOLDEN  WORDS 101 


LEGENDS  AND  LYRICS.     A  LOOK  OF  VERSES. 
SECOND  SERIES. 

A  LEGEND  OF  PROVENCE 105 

ENVY       .' 1U 

OVER  THE  MOUNTAIN 114 

BEYOND 115 

A  WAHNINQ 116 

MAXIMUS 117 

OI>TIMUS .*  118 

A  LOST  CHORD 119 

Too  LATE    .  liy 

THE  REQUITAL 120 

RETURNED  —  "  MISSING  " 121 

IN  THE  WOOD 123 

Two  WORLDS 123 

A  NEW  MOTHER  ,       ,  121 

GIVE  PLACE        ..,.,... 131 

MY  AViLL 133 

K.ING  AMD  SLAVE .  133 


xiv  CONTENTS. 

A  CHANT 133 

DREAM-LIFE ...  135 

REST ~      .  135 

THE  TYRANT  AND  THE  CAPTIVE 137 

THE  CARVER'S  LESSON 138 

THREE  ROSES 139 

MY  PICTURE  GALLERY »  140 

SENT  TO  HEAVEN 143 

NEVER  AGAIN 143 

LISTENING  ANGELS 144 

GOLDEN  DAYS 145 

PHILIP  AND  MILDRED 146 

BORROWED  THOUGHTS. 

I.  FROM  "  LAVATEE  " 153 

II.  FROM  " PHANTASIES"      ..........  153 

III.  FROM  "  LOST  ALICE  " 154 

IV.  FROM  *  *  * 154 

LIGHT  AND  SHADE 155 

A  CHANGELING 137 

DISCOURAGED 158 

I?  THOU  COULDST  KNOW 159 

THE  WARRIOR  TO  HIS  DEAD  BRIDE 159 

A  LETTER 160 

A  COMFORTER 162 

UNSEEN 164 

A  REMEMBRANCE  OF  AUTUMN 165 

THREE  EVENINGS  IN  A  LIFE 165 

THE  WIND 172 

EXPECTATION 173 

AN  IDEAL 174 

OUR  DEAD 175 

A  WOMAN'S  ANSWER 176 

THE  STORY  OF  THE  FAITHFUL  SOUL 178 

A  CONTRAST '.  179 

THE  BRIDE'S  DREAM 181 

THE  ANGEL'S  BIDDING 182 

SPRING 183 

EVENING  HYMN 184 

THE  INNER  CHAMBER 185 

HEARTS 185 

Two  LOVES 187 

A  WOMAN'S  LAST  WORD 187 


CONTENTS.  xv 

?AST  AND  PRESENT 188 

:'OK  TUK  FUTURE 189 


A  CHAPLET  OF  VERSES. 

LVTRODCCTIOJI 195 

ARMY   OF  THE   LoKD 199 

I'n  K  STAR  OF  THE  SEA 202 

THE  SACEED  HEART 202 

CUE  XAMES  OF  OUR  LADY 204 

\.  CHAPLET  OF  FLOWERS 205 

KYRIE  ELEISON 207 

THE  ANNUNCIATION 208 

4.N  APPEAL 208 

THE  JUBILEE  OF  1850 210 

CHRISTMAS  FLOWERS 211 

4.  DESIRE 212 

DUR  DAILY  BREAD 214 

THREEFOLD 214 

!ONFtDO  ET  COXQUIESCO 215 

KA  PRO  ME 215 

THE  CHURCH  IN  1849 216 

WISHERS  OF  MEN 216 

THE  OLD  YEAR'S  BLESSING 217 

VEXING  CHANT 218 

L  CHRISTMAS  CAROL 219 

OUR  TITLES 220 

MINISTERING  ANGELS 221 

THE  SHRINKS  OF  MARY 223 

'HE  HOMELESS  POOR 226 

UILLY'S  EXPIATION 231 

.  CASTLE  IN  THE  AIR 239 

ER  PACESI  AD  LUCEIC 210 

A.  LEGEND 240 

BIRTHDAY  GIFTS 241 

^  BEGGAR 244 

INKS  WITH  HEAVEN        .                       243 

IOMELESS        .......  246 


Pebtcateb 


MATILDA    M.   HAYS. 

"  Our  tokens  of  love  are  for  the  most  part  barbarous.  Cold  and  lifeless, 
because  they  do  not  represent  our  life.  The  only  gift  is  a  portion  of  thy- 
self. Therefore  let  the  fanner  give  his  corn ;  the  miner,  a  gem ;  the 
sailor,  coral  and  shells ;  the  painter,  his  picture ;  and  the  poet,  his  poem." 
—  EMEESON'S  Essays. 

A.  A.  P. 

May,  1858. 


LEGENDS    AND     LYRICS. 

A    BOOK    OF    VERSES. 


FlfiST  SERIES. 


LEGENDS  AND  LYEICS. 


THE  ANGEL'S   STORY. 

THROUGH  the  blue  and  frosty 

heavens 
Christmas  stars  were  shining 

bright ; 
Glistening  lamps  throughout  the 

City 

Almost  matched  their  gleam- 
ing light  ; 

While  the  winter  snow  was  ly- 
ing, 
And    the    winter    winds    were 

sighing, 

Long    ago,    one     Christmas 
night. 

While,  from   every   tower   and 

steeple, 
Pealing  bells  were  sounding 

clear, 

(Never  with  such  tones  of  glad- 
ness, 
Save  when  Christmas  time  is 

near,) 
Many    a    one    that    night   was 

merry 

Who   had  toiled   through  all 
the  year. 


That  night  saw  old  wrongs  for- 
given, 

Friends,   long  parted,   recon- 
ciled ; 

Voices  all  unused  to  laughter, 
Mournful    eyes    that    rarely 

smiled, 
Trembling  hearts  that  feared  the 

morrow, 

From  their  anxious  thoughts 
beguiled. 

Rich  and  poor  felt  love  and 
blessing 

From  the  gracious  season  fall ; 
Joy  and  plenty  in  the  cottage, 

Peace  and  feasting  in  the  hall ; 
And  the  voices  of  the  children 

Ringing  clear  above  it  all ! 

Yet  one  house  was  dim  and  dark- 
ened ; 

Gloom,  and  sickness,  and  de- 
spair, 

Dwelling  in  the  gilded  chambers, 
Creeping  up  the  marble  stair, 
Even  stilled  the  voice  of  mourn- 
ing,— 

For  a  child  lay  dying  there. 
A 


THE  ANGEVS  STORY. 


Silken  curtains.'  fe^.'arouncLb'inJ, ; 

Velvet    carpets    hushed    the 

tread', \  •  \  <  '/I 
Many  costly  toy's 'were  ij'ing, 

All  unheeded,  by  his  bed  ; 
And  his  tangled  golden  ringlets 

Were  on  downy  pillows  spread. 

The  skill  of  that  mighty  City 
To   save   one   little  life   was 

vain,  — 
One    little   thread    from    being 

broken, 

One  fatal  word  from  being  spo- 
ken ; 

Nay,  his  very  mother's  pain, 
And  the  mighty  love  within  her, 
Could   not  give   him   health 
again. 

So  she  knelt  there  still  beside 

him, 
She  alone  with  strength   to 

smile, 
Promising  that  he  should  suffer 

No  more  in  a  little  while, 
Murmuring    tender    song    and 

story 
Weary  hours  to  beguile. 

Suddenly  an  unseen  Presence 
Checked  those  constant  moan- 
ing cries, 
Stilled  the  little   heart's   quick 

fluttering, 

Raised  those  blue  and  won- 
dering eyes, 

Fixed  on  some  mysterious  vision, 
With   a   startled    sweet   sur- 
prise. 


radiant  angel  hovered, 
Smiling,  o'er  the  little  bed  ; 
White    his    raiment,    from    his 

shoulders 
Snowy      dove-like      pinions 

spread, 

And  a  starlike  light  was  shining 
In  a  Glory  round  his  head. 

While,  with  tender  love,  the  an- 

gel, 

Leaning  o'er  the  little  nest, 
In  his  arms  the  sick  child  fold- 
ing, 

Laid  him  gently  on  his  breast, 
Sobs  and  wailings  told  the  moth- 
er 
That  her  darling  was  at  rest. 

So  the  angel,  slowly  rising, 
Spread  his  wings,  and  through 

the  air 
Bore   the  child,   and,  while   he 

held  him 

To  his  heart  with  loving  care, 
Placed    a    branch    of    crimson 

roses 
Tenderly  beside  him  there. 

While  the  child,  thus  clinging, 

floated 
Towards  the  mansions  of  the 

Blest, 

Gazing  from  his  shining  guar- 
dian     * 

To  the  flowers  upon  his  breast, 
Thus  the  angel  spake,  still  smil- 
ing 
On  the  little  heavenly  guest: 


THE  ANGEL'S  STORY. 


« Know,   dear    little    one,   that 

Heaven 

Does  no  earthly  thing  disdain, 
Man's  poor  joys  find  there  an 

echo 

Just  as  surely  as  his  pain  ; 
Love,  on  earth  so  feebly  striv- 
ing, 
Lives  divine  in  Heaven  again  ! 

"  Once  in  that  great  town  below 
us, 

In  a  poor  and  narrow  street, 
Dwelt  a  little  sickly  orphan ; 

Gentle,  aid,  or  pity  sweet, 
Never  in  life's  rugged  pathway 

Guided  his  poor  tottering  feet. 

"  All  the  striving  anxious  fore- 
thought 
That  should  only  come  with 

age 

Weighed  upon  his  baby  spirit, 
Showed  him  soon  life's  stern- 
est page ; 
Grim  Want  was  his  nurse,  and 

Sorrow 
Was  his  only  heritage. 

"  All  too  weak  for  childish  pas- 
times, 

Drearily  the  hours  sped  ; 
On  his  hands  so  small  and  trem- 
bling 

Leaning  his  poor  aching  head, 
Or,   through   dark   and    painful 

hours, 
Lying  sleepless  on  his  bed. 


"  Dreaming  strange  and  longing 

fancies 

Of  cool  forests  far  away  ; 
And  of  rosy,  happy  children, 
Laughing  merrily  at  play, 
Coming    home    through   green 

lanes,  bearing 

Trailing  boughs  of  blooming 
May. 

"  Scarce  a  glimpse  of  azure  heav- 
en 
Gleamed  above   that  narrow 

street, 

And  the  sultry  air  of  summer 
(That  you  call  so  warm  and 

sweet) 

Fevered  the  poor  orphan,  dwell- 
ing 
In  the  crowded  alley's  heat. 

"  One   bright   day,   with   feeble 

footsteps 

Slowly  forth  he  tried  to  crawl, 
Through  the  crowded  city's  path- 
ways, 

Till  he  reached  a  garden-wall, 
Where  'mid  princely  halls  and 

mansions 
Stood  the  lordliest  of  all. 

"  There  were   trees  with   giant 

branches, 
Velvet  glades  where  shadows 

hide  ; 
There  were  sparkling  fountains 

glancing, 

Flowers,  which  in   luxuriant 
pride 


THE  ANGEL'S  STORY. 


Even  wafted  breaths  of  perfume 
To  the  child  who  stood  out- 
side. 


"  He  against  the  gate  of  iron 
Pressed   his  wan  and  wistful 

face, 

Gazing  with  an  awe-struck  pleas- 
ure 

At  the  glories  of  the  place ; 
Never    had   his    brightest   day- 
dream 

Shone   with   half  such  won- 
drous grace. 


"  You  were  playing  in  that  gar- 
den, 

Throwing  blossoms  in  the  air, 

Laughing  when  the  petals  floated 

Downwards  on   your   golden 

hair ; 
And  the  fond  eyes  watching  o'er 

you, 
And  the  splendor  spread  before 

you, 

Told   a    House's    Hope    was 
there. 


"When  your  servants,  tired  of 

seeing 

Such  a  face  of  want  and  woe, 
Turning  to  the  ragged  orphan, 
Gave  him  coin,  and  bade  him 

go, 
Down  his   cheeks  so  thin  and 

wasted   • 
Bitter  tears  began  to  flow. 


"  But  that  look  of  childish  sor- 
row 
On    your    tender   child-heart 

fell, 
And    you    plucked    the   reddest 

roses 
From  the  tree  you  loved  so 

well 
Passed  them  through  the  stern 

cold  grating, 

Gently    bidding    him    '  Fare- 
well ! ' 

"  Dazzled  by  the  fragrant  treas- 
ure 

And  the  gentle  voice  he  heard, 
In  the  poor  forlorn  boy's  spirit, 
Joy,    the     sleeping     Seraph, 

stirred  ; 

In  his  hand  he  took  the  flowers, 
In  his  heart  the  loving  word. 

"  So  he  crept  to  his  poor  garret ; 
Poor  no  more,  but  rich  and 

bright, 

For  the  holy  dreams  of  child- 
hood— 
Love,   and   Rest,    and  Hope, 

and  Light  — 

Floated  round  the  orphan's  pil- 
low 

Through  the  starry  summer 
night. 

"  Day  dawned,  yet  the  visions 

lasted ; 

All  too  weak  to  rise  he  lay ; 
Did  he  dream  that  none  spake 

harshly,  — 


ECHOES. 


All  were  strangely  kind  that 

day  ? 

Surely  then  his  treasured  roses 
Must   have   charmed    all   ills 

away. 

"  And  he  smiled,   though   they 

were  fading ; 
One  by  oue  their  leaves  were 

shed ; 
'  Such  bright  things  could  never 

perish, 
They  would  bloom  again,'  he 

said. 
When   the  next  day's  sun  had 

risen 

Child  and  flowers  both  were 
dead. 

"Know,    dear    little   one!    our 

Father 

Will  no  gentle  deed  disdain  : 
Love  on   the  cold  earth   begin. 

ning 

Lives  divine  in  Heaven  again, 
While  the  angel  hearts  that  beat 

there 

Still  all   tender  thoughts  re- 
tain." 

So  the  angel  ceased,  and  gently 

O'er  his  little  burden  leant ; 
While  the  child  gazed  from  the 

shining, 
Loving   eyes    that   o'er    him 

bent, 

To  the  blooming  roses  by  him, 
Wondering  what  that  mystery 
meant. 


Thus  the  radiant  angel  answered, 
And    with     tender    meaning 

smiled : 
"  Ere    your     childlike,     loving 

spirit, 

Sin  and  the  hard  world  defiled, 
God  has  given  me  leave  to  seek 

you,  — 
I  was  once  that  little  child !  " 

*          *          *          * 
In  the  churchyard  of  that  city 
Rose  a  tomb  of  marble  rare, 
Decked,  as  soon  as  Spring  awak- 
ened, 
With  her  buds  and  blossoms 

fair,  — 

And  a  humble  grave  beside  it, — 
No  one  knew  who  rested  there. 


ECHOES. 

STILL  the  angel  stars  are  shining, 
Still  the  rippling  waters  flow, 
But  the  angel-voice  is  silent 
That  I  heard  so  long  ago. 
Hark !    the    echoes    murmur 
low, 

Long  ago ! 

Still  the  wood  is  dim  and  lonely, 
Still    the   plashing    fountains 
play, 

But  the  past  and  all  its  beauty, 
Whither  has  it  fled  away  ? 
Hark !    the    mournful   echoes 


say, 


Fled  away ! 


MY  PICTURE. 


Still  the  bird  of  night  complain- 

eth, 
(Now,    indeed,    her    song    is 

pain,) 

Visions  of  my  happy  hours, 
Do  I  call  and  call  in  vain  ? 
Hark  !  the  echoes  cry  again, 
All  in  vain ! 

Cease, O  echoes, mournful  echoes! 
Once  I  loved  your  voices  well ; 
Now  my  heart  is  sick  and  weary  — 
Days  of  old,  a  long  farewell ! 
Hark !    the    echoes    sad    and 
dreary 

Cry  farewell,  farewell ! 


A  FALSE   GENIUS. 

I  SEE  a  Spirit  by  thy  side, 
Purple-winged  and  eagle-eyed, 
Looking  like  a  heavenly  guide. 

Though  he  seem  so  bright  and 

fair, 

Ere  thou  trust  his  proffered  care, 
Pause  a  little,  and  beware ! 

If  he  bid  thee  dwell  apart, 
Tending  some  ideal  smart 
In  a  sick  and  coward  heart ; 

In  self-worship  wrapped  alone, 
Dreaming  thy  poor  griefs   are 

grown 
More  than  other  men  have  known; 


Dwelling  in  some  cloudy  sphere, 
Though  God's  work  is  waiting 

here, 
And  God  deigneth  to  be  near ; 

If  his  torch's  crimson  glare 
Show  the  evil  everywhere, 
Tainting  all  the  wholesome  air ; 

While    with    strange    distorted 

choice, 

Still  disdaining  to  rejoice, 
Thou  wilt  hear  a  wailing  voice ; 

If  a  simple,  humble  heart 
Seem  to  thec  a  meaner  part 
Than  thy  noblest  aim  and  art ; 

If  he  bid  thce  bow  before 
Crowned  Mind  and  nothing  more, 
The  great  idol  men  adore ; 

And  with  starry  veil  enfold 
Sin,  the  trailing  serpent  old, 
Till  his  scales  shine  out  like  gold  ; 

Though  his  words  seem  true  and 

wise, 

Soul,  I  say  to  thee,  Arise, 
lie  is  a  Demon  in  disguise  ! 


MY   PICTURE. 

STAND  this  way  —  more  near  the 

window  — 
By  my   desk  —  you   see   the 

light 

Falling  on  my  picture  better  — 
Thus  I  see  it  while  I  write ! 


JUDGE  NOT. 


Who  the  head  may  be  I  know 

not, 

But  it  has  a  student  air ; 
With  a  look  half  sad,  half  stately, 
Grave  sweet  eyes  and  flowing 
hair. 

Little  care  I  who  the  painter, 
How  obscure  a  name  he  bore ; 

Nor,    when   some   have    named 

Velasquez, 
Did  I  value  it  the  more. 

As  it  is,  I  would  not  give  it 
For  the  rarest  piece  of  art ; 

It  has  dwelt  with  me,  and  lis- 
tened 
To  the  secrets  of  my  heart. 

Many  a  time,  when  to  my  garret, 

Weary,  I  returned  at  night, 
It  lias   seemed  to  look   a  wel- 
come 

That  has  made  my  poor  room 
bright. 

Many  a  time,  when  ill  and  sleep- 
less, 
I  have  watched  the  quivering 

gleam 

Of  my  lamp  upon  that  picture, 
Till  it  faded  in  my  dream. 

When  dark  days  have  come,  and 

friendship 
Worthless  seemed,  and  life  in 

vain, 
That  bright  friendly  smile  has 

sent  me 
Boldly  to  my  task  again. 


Sometimes  when  hard  need  has 

pressed  me 

To  bow  down  where  I  depise, 
I  have  read  stern  words  of  coun- 
sel 
In  those  sad,  reproachful  eyes. 

Nothing  that  my  brain  imagined, 
Or  my  weary  hand  has 

wrought, 

But  it  watched  the  dim  Idea 
Spring     forth     into     armed 
Thought. 

It  has  smiled  on  my  successes, 
Raised   me  when   my   hopes 

were  low, 
And  by  turns  has  looked  upon 

me 

With   all   the  loving  eyes   I 
know. 

Do  you  wonder  that  my  picture 
Has  become  so  like  a  friend  ?  — 

It  has  seen  my  life's  beginnings, 
It  shall  stay  and  cheer  the 
end! 


JUDGE   NOT. 

JUDGE  not ;  the  workings  of  his 

brain 
And  of  his  heart  thou  canst 

not  see ; 
What  looks  to  thy  dim  eyes  a 

stain, 

In  God's  pure  light  may  only 
be 


ONE  BY  ONE. 


A  scar,  brought  from  some  well- 
won  field, 

Where  thou  wouldst  only  faint 
and  yield. 

The  look,  the  air,  that  frets  thy 

sight, 

May  be  a  token,  that  below 
The  soul  has  closed  in  deadly 

fight 

With  some  infernal  fiery  foe, 
Whose  glance  would  scorch  thy 

smiling  grace, 
And  cast  thee  shuddering  on  thy 

face ! 

The  fall  thou  darest  to  despise  — 
Maybe  the  angel's  slackened 

hand 

Has  suffered  it,  that  he  may  rise 

And  take  a  firmer,  surer  stand ; 

Or,  trusting  less  to  earthly  things, 

May  henceforth  learn  to  use  his 

wings. 

And  judge  none  lost ;  but  wait 

and  see, 

With  hopeful  pity,  not  disdain; 
The  depth  of  the  abyss  may  be 
The  measure  of  the  height  of 

pain 
And  love  and  glory  that  may 

raise 
This  soul  to  God  in  after  days  ! 


FRIEND    SORROW. 

Do  not  cheat  thy  Heart  and  tell 

her, 
"  Grief  will  pass  away, 


Hope  for  fairer  times  in  future, 
And  forget  to-day."  — 

Tell  her,  if  you  will,  that  sorrow 
Need  not  come  in  vain  ; 

Tell  her  that  the  lesson  taught 

her 
Far  outweighs  the  pain. 

Cheat  her  not  with  the  old  com- 
fort, 

"  Soon  she  will  forget,"  — 
Bitter  truth,  alas  !  but  matter 

Rather  for  regret ; 
Bid  her  not  "  Seek  other  pleas- 
ures, 

Turn  to  other  things  "  ;  — 
Rather  nurse  her  cage'd  sorrow 

Till  the  captive  sings. 

Rather  bid  her  go  forth  bravely, 

And  the  stranger  greet ; 
Not  as  foe,  with  spear  and  buckler, 

But  as  dear  friends  meet: 
Bid  her  with  a  strong  clasp  hold 
her, 

By  her  dusky  wings, 
Listening    for    the     murmured 
blessing 

Sorrow  always  brings. 


ONE   BY   ONE. 

ONE  by  one  the  sands  are  flow- 
ing* 

One  by  one  the  moments  fall ; 
Some  are  coming,  some  are  go- 
ing ; 

Do  not  strive  to  grasp  them 
all. 


TRUE  HONORS. 


One    by   one   thy    duties    wait 

thee, 
Let  thy  whole  strength  go  to 

each , 

Let  no  future  dreams  elate  thee, 
Learn  thou  first  what   these 
can  teach. 

One  hy  one  (bright  gifts  from 

Heaven) 

Joys  are  sent  thee   here  be- 
low ; 

Take  them  readily  when  given, 
Ready  too  to  let  them  go. 

One  by  one  thy  griefs  shall  meet 

thee, 

Do  not  fear  an  arme'd  band  ; 
One  will   fade   as   others  greet 

thee ; 

Shadows  passing  through  the 
land. 

Do  not  look  at  life's  long  sor- 
row ; 
See  how  small  each  moment's 

pain, 

God  will  help  thee  for  to-mor- 
row, 
So  each  day  begin  again. 

Every  hour  that  fleets  so  slowly 
Has  its  task  to  do  or  bear ; 

Luminous  the  crown,  and  holy, 
Wliun  each  gem  is  set  with 
care. 

Do  not  linger  with  regretting, 
Or  for  passing  hours  despond; 


Nor,  the  daily  toil  forgetting, 
Look  too  eagerly  beyond. 

Hours  are  golden  links,  God's 

token, 
Reaching  heaven ;  but  one  by 

one 
Take   them,  lest  the   chain   be 

broken 
Ere  the  pilgrimage  be  done. 


TRUE   HONORS. 

Is  my  darling  tired  already, 
Tired  of  her  day  of  play  ? 
Draw  your  little  stool  beside  me, 
Smooth  this  tangled  hair  away. 
Can  she  put  the  logs  together, 
Till    they    make   a   cheerful 

blaze? 
Shall  her  blind  old  Uncle  tell 

her 

Something    of    his    youthful 
days? 

Hark !      The  wind   among   the 

cedars 
"Waves  their  white  arms  to  and 

fro; 
I  remember  how  I  watched  them 

Sixty  Christmas  Days  ago : 
Then  I  dreamt  a  glorious  vision 
Of  great  deeds  to  crowa  each 

year ; 
Sixty  Christmas  Days  have  found 

me 

Useless,  helpless,  blind  —  an<] 
here  ! 


10 


TRUE  HONORS. 


Yes,  I  feel  my  darling  stealing 

Warm  soft  fingers  into  mine : 
Shall  I  tell  her  what  I  fancied 

In  that  strange  old  dream  of 

mine  ? 
I  was  kneeling  by  the  window, 

Heading  how  a  noble  band, 
With   the    red    cross   on    their 
breastplates, 

Went  to  gain  the  Holy  Land. 

While  with  eager  eyes  of  wonder 

Over  the  dark  page  I  bent, 
Slowly  twilight   shadows   gath- 
ered 

Till  the  letters  came  and  went ; 
Slowly,  till  the  night  was  round 

me; 
Then  my  heart  beat  loud  and 

fast, 
For  I  felt  before  I  saw  it 

That  a  spirit  near  me  passed. 

Then   I   raised   my   eyes,   and, 

shining 
Where  the   moon's  first  ray 

was  bright, 

Stood  a  winged  Angel-warrior 
Clothed     and     panoplied     in 

light : 

So,  with  Heaven's  love  upon  him, 

Stern  in  calm  and  resolute  will, 

Looked  St.  Michael,  —  does  the 

picture 
Hang  in  the  old  cloister  still  ? 

Threefold   were   the  dreams   of 

honor 

That  absorbed  my  heart  and 
brain; 


Threefold     crowns     the    Angel 

promised, 

Each  one  to  be  bought  by  pain  : 
While  he  spoke,  a  threefold  bless- 
ing 

Fell  upon  my  soul  like  rain. 
HELPER  OF  THE  POOR  AND  SUF- 
FERING ; 
VICTOR     IN     A     GLORIOUS 

STRIFE; 

SINGER  OF  A  NOBLE  POEM  : 
Such  the  honors  of  my  life. 

Ah,  that  dream !     Long  years 

that  gave  me 

Joy  and  grief  as  real  things 
Never  touched  the  tender  memory 
Sweet    and    solemn    that    it 

brings,  — 

Never  quite  effaced  the  feeling 
Of  those  white  and  shadowing 
wings. 

Do  those  blue  eyes  open  wider  ? 
Does    my   faith    too    foolish 

seem  ? 
Yes,    my    darling,    years    have 

taught  me 

It  was  nothing  but  a  dream. 
Soon,  too  soon,  the  bitter  knowl- 
edge 

Of  a  fearful  trial  rose, 
Rose    to    crush   my   heart,  and 

sternly 
Bade  my  young  ambition  close. 

More  and  more  my  eyes  were 

clouded, 

Till   at   last   God's    glorious 
light 


TRUE  HONORS. 


11 


'asscd  away  from  me  forever, 
Ami  I  lived  and  live  in  night. 

)ear,  I  will  not  dim  your  pleasure, 
Christmas     should     be    only 
gay:  — 

n  my  night  the  stars  have  risen, 
And  I  wait  the  dawn  of  day. 

5pite  of  all  I  could  be  happy  ; 

For  my  brothers'  tender  care 
n  their  boyish  pastimes  ever 

Made  me  take,  or  feel  a  share. 
?hilip,  even  then  so  thoughtful, 

Max  so  noble,  brave,  and  tall, 
\.nd  your  father,  little  Godfrey, 

The  most  loving  of  them  all. 

I'hilip  reasoned  down  my  sorrow, 
Max  would  laugh  my  gloom 

away, 
odfrey's  little  arms  put  round 

me 

Helped  me  through  my  drea- 
riest day ; 

rVhile  the  promise  of  my  Angel, 
Like  a  star,  now  bright,  now 

pale, 

lung  in  blaekest  night  above  me, 
And  I  felt  it  could  not  fail. 

Years   passed   on,  my  brothers 

left  me, 
Each  went  out   to   take   his 

share 

[n  the  struggle  of  life  ;  my  por- 
tion 

Was  a  humble  one  —  to  bear. 
Sere  I  dwelt,  and  learnt  to  wan- 
der 

Through  the  woods  and  fields 
alone, 


Every  cottage  in  the  village 
Had  a  corner  called  my  own. 

Old  and  young,  all  brought  their 

troubles, 
Great    or    small,  for  me    to 

hear ; 

I  have  often  blessed  my  sorrow 
That    drew    others'    grief  so 

near. 

Ah,  the  people  needed  helping— >- 
Needed  love  —  (for  Love  and 

Heaven 

Are  the  only  gifts  not  bartered, 
They  alone  are  freely  given)  — - 

And  I  gave  it.     Philip's  bounty 

(We  were  orphans,  dear)  made 

toil 
Prosper,  and  want  never  fastened 

On  the  tenants  of  the  soil. 
Philip's  name  (O,  how  I  gloried, 

He  so  young,  to  see  it  rise !) 
Soon '  grew  noted  among  states- 
men 

As  a  patriot  true  and  wise. 

And  his  people  all  felt  honored 
To  be  ruled  by  such  a  name ; 
I  was  proud  too  that  they  loved 

me; 
Through  their  pride  in  him  it 

came. 
He  had  gained  what  I  had  longed 

for, 
I  meanwhile  grew  glad  and 

Pa7, 

'Mid  his  people,  to  be  serving 
Him  and  them,  in  some  poor 
way. 


12 


TRUE  HONORS. 


How  his  noble  earnest  speeches 

With  untiring  fervor  came  ! 
HELPER    OF    THE   TOOK    AND 

SUFFERING; 

Truly  he  deserved  the  name  ! 
Had  my  Angel's  promise  failed 

me? 
Had  that  word  of  hope  grown 

dim? 

Why,  my  Philip  had  fulfilled  it, 
And  I  loved  it  best  in  him  5 

Max  meanwhile  —  ah,  you,  my 

darling, 

Can  his  loving  words  recall  — 

'Mid  the  bravest  and  the  noblest, 

Braver,  nobler,  than  them  all. 

How  I  loved  him  !  how  my  heart 

thrilled 
When  his  sword  clanked  by 

his  side, 

When  I  touched  his  gold   em- 
broidery, 
Almost  saw  him  in  his  pride ! 

So  we  parted  ;  he  all  eager 

To  uphold  the  name  he  bore, 
Leaving     in     my    charge  —  he 

loved  me  — 
Some  one  whom  he  loved  still 

more : 

I  must  tend  this  gentle  flower, 
I  must  speak  to  her  of  him, 
For   he    feared  —  Love    still   is 

fearful  — 

That  his  memory  might  grow 
dim. 

I  must  guard  her  from  all  sorrow, 
I  must  play  a  brother's  part, 


Shield  all  grief  and  trial  from 

her, 

If  it  need  he,  with  my  heart 
Years  passed,  and  his  name  gr 

famous  ; 

We  were  proud,  both  she  and  '. 
And  we  lived  upon  his  letters, 
While  the  slow  days  fleeted  by. 

Then  at   last  —  you   know  the 

story, 

How  a  fearful  rumor  spread, 
Till  all  hope  had  slowly  faded, 
And  we  heard  that   he  was 

dead. 
Dead  !      0,   those  were   bitter 

hours  ; 
Yet    within    my    soul    there 

dwelt 
A   warning,    and   while    others 

mourned  him, 
Something  like  a  hope  I  felt. 

His  was  no  weak  life  as  mine 

was, 

But  a  life,  so  full  and  strong  — 
No,   I  could  not  think  he  per- 
ished 
Nameless,   'mid   a   conquered 

throng. 
How  she  drooped !  Years  passed ; 

no  tidings 

Came,  and  yet  that  little  flame 
Of  strange  hope  within  my  spirit 
Still  burnt  on,  and  lived  the 
same. 

Ah !  my  child,  our  hearts  will 

fail  us, 

When   to   us   they   strongest 
seem : 


TRUE  HONORS. 


13 


[  can  look  hack  on  those  hours 

As  a  fearful,  evil  dream. 
She   had  long  despaired ;   what 

wonder 
That  her  heart  had  turned  to 

mine  ? 

Earthly  loves  are  deep  and  ten- 
der, 
Not  eternal  and  divine  ! 

Can  I  say  how  bright  a  future 

Rose  before  my  soul  that  day  ? 
0,  so  strange,  so  sweet,  so  tender ! 

And  I  had  to  turn  away. 
Hard  and  terrible  the  struggle, 

For  the  pain  not  mine  alone  ; 
I  called  back  my  Brother's  spirit, 

Aud  I  bade  him  claim  his  own. 

Told  her  —  now  I  dared  to  do 

it  — 

That  I  felt  the  day  would  rise 
When  he  would  return  to  glad- 
den 
My  weak  heart  and  her  bright 

eyes. 
And  I  pleaded  —  pleaded  stern- 

iy- 

In  his  name,  and  for  his  sake  : 
Ko\v,  I  can  speak  calmly  of  it, 
Then,    I    thought    my    heart 
would  break. 

Soon  —  ah,  Love   had   not   de- 
ceived me, 
(Love's   true   instincts    never 

err,) 
Wounded,  weak,  escaped    from 

prison, 
He  returned  to  me,  —  to  her. 


I  could  thank  God  that  bright 

morning, 
When    I    felt    my   Brother's 

gaze, 
That   my  heart   was   true   and 

loyal, 
As  in  our  old  boyish  days. 

Bought  by  wounds  and  deeds  of 

daring, 

Honors  he  had  brought  away ; 
Glory  crowned  his  name  —  my 

Brother's ; 
Mine  too !  —  we  were  one  that 

day. 
Since    the   crown  on   him   had 

fallen, 

"  VICTOR  IN  A  NOBLE  STRIFE," 
I  could  live  and  die  contented 
With  my  poor  ignoble  life. 

Well,  my  darling,  almost  weary 

Of  my  story  ?     Wait  awhile; 
For  the  rest  is  only  joyful ; 

I  can  tell  it  with  a  smile. 
One  bright  promise  still  was  left 
me, 

Wound  so  close  about  my  soul, 
That,  as  one  by  one  had  failed  me, 

This  dream  now  absorbed  the 
whole. 

"  SINGER  OF  A  NOBLE  POEM," — 

Ah,  my  darling,  few  and  rare 

Burn    the    glorious    names    of 

Poets, 

Like  stars  in  the  purple  air. 
That  too,  and  I  glory  in  it, 
That  great  gift  my  Godfrey 
won  ; 


14 


A    WOMAN'S    QUESTION. 


I  have  my  dear  share  of  honor, 
Gained  by  that  belove'd  one. 

One  day  shall  my  darling  read 

it; 

Now  she  cannot  understand 
All    the    noble    thoughts    that 

lighten 
Through   the   genius   of    the 

land. 

I  am  proud  to  be  his  brother, 
Proud  to  think  that  hope  was 

true ; 
Though  I  longed  and  strove  so 

vainly, 
What  I  failed  in,  he  could  do. 

I  was  long  before  I  knew  it, 

Longer  ere  I  felt  it  so  ; 
Then  I  strung  my  rhymes  to- 
gether 

Only  for  the  poor  and  low. 
And,  it  pleases  me  to  know  it, 

(For  I  love  them  well  indeed,) 
They  care  for  my  humble  verses, 

Fitted  for  their  humble  need. 

And,  it  cheers  my  heart  to  hear 

it, 

Where  the  far-off  settlers  roam, 
My  poor  words  are  sung    and 

cherished, 
Just   because   they   speak   of 

Home. 

And  the  little  children  sing  them, 
(That,  I  think,  has  pleased  me 

best,) 

Often,  too,  the  dying  love  them, 
For  they  tell  of  Heaven  and 
vest- 


So  my  last  vain  dream  has  fade 

(Such  as  I  to  think  of  fame!) 
Yet  I  will  not  say  it  failed  me, 
For  it  crowned  my  Godfrey 

name. 

No  ;  my  Angel  did  not  cheat  i 
For   my    long   life   has 

blest ; 
He  did  give  me  Love  and  Sc 

row, 
He  will  bring  me  Light  and 


Rest. 


N. 


A  WOMAN'S    QUESTIO 


BEFORE  I  trust  my  Fate  to  thee, 
Or  place  my  hand  in  thine, 

Before  I  let  thy  Future  give 
Color  and  form  to  mine, 

Before  I  peril  all  for  thce,  question 
thy  soul  to-night  for  me. 

I  break  all  slighter  bonds,  nor 

feel 

A  shadow  of  regret : 
Is  there  one  link  within  the  Past 

That  holds  thy  spirit  yet  ? 
Or  is  thy  Faith  as  clear  and  free 
as  that  which  I  can  pledge  to 
thee? 

Does  there  within  thy  dimmest 

dreams 

A  possible  future  shine, 
Wherein   thy  life    could    hence- 
forth breathe, 

Untouched,  unshared  by  mine? 
If  so,  at  any  pain  or  cost,  O,  tell 
me  before  all  is  lost. 


THE  THREE  RULERS. 


15 


Look  deeper  still.    If  thou  canst 

feel 

Within  my  inmost  soul, 
That  thou  hast  kept  a  portion 

back, 
While     I    have     staked    the 

whole ; 

Let  no  false  pity  spare  the  blow, 
but  in  true  mercy  tell  me  so. 

Is  there  within  thy  heart  a  need 

That  mine  cannot  fulfil  ? 
One  chord  that  any  other  hand 

Could  better  wake  or  still  ? 
Speak  now  —  lest   at   some  fu- 
ture   day    my   whole    life 
wither  and  decay. 


Lives   there  within   thy   nature 

hid 

The  demon-spirit  Change, 
Shedding  a  passing  glory  still 
On     all     things     new     and 

strange  ?  — 

It  may  not  be  thy  fault  alone  — 
but  shield  my  heart  against 
thy  own. 

Couldst  thou  withdraw  thy  hand 

one  day 
And  answer  to  my  claim, 

That  Fate,  and  that  to-day's  mis- 
take— 

Not      thou  —  had     been     to 
blame  ? 

Some  soothe  their  conscience 
thus ;  but  thou  wilt  sure- 
ly warn  and  save  me  now. 


Nay,   answer  not,  —  I  dare  not 

hear, 

The  words  would  come  too 
late ; 

Yet  I  would  spare  thee  all  re- 
morse, 
So,  comfort  thee,  my  Fate  — 

Whatever  on  my  heart  may  fall 
—  remember,  I  would  risk 
it  all! 


THE   THREE   RULERS. 

I  SAW  a  Ruler  take  his  stand, 
And  trample  on  a  mighty  land ; 
The  People  crouched  before  his 

beck, 

His  iron  heel  was  on  their  neck, 
His  name  shone  bright  through 

blood  and  pain, 
His   sword   flashed    back   their 

praise  again. 

I  saw  another  Ruler  rise  : 

His  words  were  noble,  good,  and 

wise ; 

With  the  calm  sceptre  of  his  pen 
He  ruled  the  minds  and  thoughts 

of  men  : 
Some  scoffed,  some  praised,  — 

while  many  heard, 
Only  a  few  obeyed  his  word. 

Another  Ruler  then  I  saw  : 
Love  and  sweet  Pity  were  his 

law ; 
The  greatest  and  the  least  had 

part 


16 


A  DOUBTING  HEART. 


(Yet  most  the  unhappy)  in  his 

heart : 

The  People,  in  a  mighty  band, 
Hose   up,  and  drove  him  from 

the  land  ! 


A   DEAD   PAST. 

SPARE  her  at  least :   look,  you 

have  taken  from  me 
The  Present,  and  I  murmur  not, 

nor  moan  ; 
The   Future    too,   with    all  her 

glorious  promise ; 
But  do   not   leave    me    utterly 

alone. 

Spare  me  the  Past :  for,  see,  she 

cannot  harm  you, 
She    lies    so    white    and    cold, 

wrapped  in  her  shroud  ; 
All,  all  my  own !  and,  trust  me, 

I  will  hide  her 
Within  my  soul,  nor  speak  to 

her  aloud. 

I  folded  her  soft  hands  upon  her 

bosom,. 
And   strewed  my  flowers  upon 

her,  —  they  still  live  : 
Sometimes    I    like    to    kiss    her 

closed  white  eyelids, 
And  think  of  all    the  joy   she 

used  to  give. 

Cruel  indeed  it  were  to  take  her 

from  me ; 
She  sleeps,  she  will  not  wake  — 

no  fear — again  : 


And  so  I  laid  her,  such  a  gentle 

burden, 
Quietly  on  my  heart  to  still  its 

pain. 

I  do  not  think  that  any  smiling 

Present, 
Any  vague  Future,  spite  of  all 

her  charms, 
Could  ever  rival  her.    You  know 

you  laid  her, 
Long  years  ago,  then  living,  in 

my  arms. 

Leave   her  at   least :   while  my 

tears  fall  upon  her, 
I  dream  she  smiles,  just  as  she 

did  of  yore ; 
As  dear  as  ever  to  me,  —  nay,  it 

may  be, 
Even  dearer  still,  —  since  I  have 

nothing  more. 


A   DOUBTING   HEART. 

WHERE  arc  the  swallows  fled  ? 

Frozen  and  dead, 
Perchance  upon  some  bleak  and 

stormy  shore. 
O  doubting  heart ! 
Far  over  purple  seas, 
They  wait,  in  sunny  case, 
The  balmy  southern  breeze, 
To  bring  them  to  their  northern 
homes  once  more. 

Why  must  the  flowers  die? 
Prisoned  they  lie 


A   STUD  EXT. 


17 


In   the  cold   tomb,   heedless   of 

tears  or  rain. 
0  doubting  heart ! 
They  only  sleep  below 
The  soft  white  ermine  snow, 
While     winter     winds     shall 

blow, 

To  breathe  and  smile  upon  you 
soon  again. 

The  sun  has  hid  its  rays 
These  many  days ; 
Will  dreary  hours   never  leave 

the  earth  ? 
0  doubting  heart ! 
The  stormy  clouds  on  high 
Veil  the  same  sunny  sky, 
That    soon     (for    spring    is 

nigh) 

Shall   wake    the   summer    into 
golden  mirth. 

Fair  hope  is  dead,  and  light 

Is  quenched  in  night. 
What  sound  can   break  the  si- 
lence of  despair  ? 
O  doubting  heart ! 
Thy  sky  is  overcast, 
Yet  stars  shall  rise  at  last, 
Brighter  for  darkness  past, 
And  angels'  silver  voices  stir  the 


A    STUDENT. 

OVER  an  ancient  scroll  I  bent, 
Steepinc:  my  soul   in   wise  con- 
tent, 


Nor  paused  a  moment,  save  to 

chide 
A  low  voice  whispering  at  my 

side. 

I  wove  beneath  the  stars'  pale 

shine 

A  dream,  half  human,  naif  divine ; 
And  shook  off  (not  to  break  the 

charm) 
A  little  hand  laid  on  my  arm. 

I  read ;    until  my  heart  would 

glow 
With   the  great   deeds  of  long 

ago; 
Nor    heard,    while    with    those 

mighty  dead, 
Pass  to  and  fro  a  faltering  tread. 

On  the   old   theme  I  pondered 

long,  — 
The  struggle  between  right  and 

wrong ; 
I  could  not  check  such  visions 

high, 
To  soothe  a  little  quivering  sigh. 

I  tried  to  solve  the  problem  — 
Life ; 

Dreaming  of  that  mysterious 
strife, 

How  could  I  leave  such  reason- 
ings wise, 

To  answer  two  blue  pleading 
eyes  1 

I  strove  how  best  to  give,  and 
when, 

My  blood  to  save  my  fellow- 
men,  — 


18 


A  KNIGHT-ERRANT. 


How  could  I  turn  aside,  to  look 
At   snowdrops    laid    upon    my 
book? 

Now  Time  has  fled  —  the  world 

is  strange, 
Something  there  is  of  pain  and 

change ; 
My  books  lie  closed  upon  the 

shelf; 
I  miss  the  old  heart  in  myself. 

I    miss    the    sunbeams    in    my 

room,  — 
It  was  not  always  wrapped   in 

gloom : 
I  miss  my  dreams,  —  they  fade 

so  fast, 
Or  flit  into  some  trivial  past. 

The  great  stream  of  the  world 

goes  by ; 
None  care,  or  heed,  or  question, 

why 

I,  the  lone  student,  cannot  raise 
My  voice  or  hand  as  in  old  days. 

No  echo  seems  to  wake  again 
My  heart  to  anything  but  pain, 
Save  when  a  dream  of  twilight 

brings 
The    fluttering    of   an    angel's 

wings  ! 


A  KNIGHT-ERRANT. 

THOUGH  he  lived  and  died  among 

us, 
Yet  his  name  may  be  enrolled 


With  the  knights  whose  deeds  of 

daring 
Ancient  chronicles  have  told. 

Still  a  stripling,  he  encountered 
Poverty,  and  struggled  long, 

Gathering  force  from  every  effort, 
Till   he    knew  his   arm   was 
strong. 

Then  his  heart  and  life  he  of- 
fered 
To    his   radiant   mistress,  — 

Truth ; 

Never  thought,  or  dream,  or  fal- 
tering, 

Marred   the    promise   of   his 
youth. 

So  he  rode  forth  to  defend  her, 
And   her  peerless  worth  pro- 
claim ; 

Challenging  each  recreant  doubt- 
er 

Who    aspersed    her    spotless 
name. 

First  upon  his  path  stood  Igno- 
rance, 

Hideous  in  his  brutal  might; 
Hard  the    blows    and   long   the 

battle 
Ere  the  monster  took  to  flight. 

Then,    with    light   and    fearless 

spirit, 

Prejudice  he  dared  to  brave; 
Hunting  back  the  lying  craven 
To   her      black     sulphureous 
cave. 


HOMEWARD  BOUND. 


19 


Followed  by  his  servile  minions, 
Custom,  the  old  Giant,  rose; 

Yet  he,  too,  at  last  was  conquered 
By  the  good  Knight's  weighty 
blows. 

Then  he  turned,  and,  flushed  with 

victory, 

Struck  upon  the  brazen  shield 
Of  the  world's  great  king,  Opin- 
ion, 
And  defied  him  to  the  field. 

Once  again  he  rose  a  conqueror, 
And,  though  wounded  in  the 

fight, 

With  a  dying  smile  of  triumph 
Saw   that   Truth  had  gained 
her  right. 

On  his  failing  ear  re-echoing 
Came  the  shouting  round  her 

throne ; 

Little  cared  he  that  no  future 
With  her  name  would  link  his 
own. 

Spent  with  many  a  hard-fought 

battle, 

Slowly  ebbed  his  life  away, 
And  the  crowd  that  flocked   to 

greet  her 
Trampled  on  him  where  he 

lay- 
Gathering   all  his   strength,   he 

saw  her 
Crowned  and  reigning  in  her 

pride ; 

Looked  bis  last  upon  her  beauty, 
liaised  his  eyes  to  God,  and 
died. 


LINGER,  O  GENTLE  TIME. 

LINGER,  O  gentle  Time, 
Linger,  O  radiant  grace  of  bright 

To-day ! 
Let  not  the  hours'  chime 

Call  thee  away, 

But  linger  near  me   still  with 
fond  delay. 

Linger,  for  thou  art  mine ! 
What   dearer  treasures  can  the 

future  hold  1 
What  sweeter  flowers  than 

thine 

Can  she  unfold  ? 
What  secrets  tell  my  heart  thou 
hast  not  told  ? 

O,  linger  in  thy  flight ! 
For  shadows  gather  round,  and 

should  we  part, 
A  dreary,  starless  night 

May  fill  my  heart,  — 
Then  pause  and  linger  yet  ere 
thou  depart. 

Linger,  I  ask  no  more,  — 
Thou  art  enough  forever  —  thou 

alone ; 
What  future  can  restore, 

When  thou  art  flown, 
All  that  I  hold  from  thee  and  call 
my  own  1 


HOMEWARD    BOUND. 

I  HAVE  seen  a  fiercer  tempest, 
Known    a    louder    whirlwind 
blow ; 


20 


HOMEWARD  BOUND. 


I  was  wrecked  off  red  Algiers, 

Six-aml-thirty  years  ago. 
Young  I  was,  and  yet  old  sea- 
men 

Were  not  strong  or  calm  as  I ; 
While  life  held  such  treasures  for 

me, 
I  felt  sure  I  could  not  die. 

Life  I  struggled  for,  —  and  saved 

it; 
Life     alone,  —  and     nothing 

more  ; 
Bruised,   half  dead,   alone   and 

helpless 

I  was  cast  upon  the  shore. 
I    feared    the    pitiless    rocks   of 

Ocean  ; 
So  the  great  sea  rose,  —  and 

then 

Cast  me  from  her  friendly  bosom, 
On  the  pitiless  hearts  of  men. 

Gaunt  and  dreary  ran  the  moun- 
tains, 
With    black   gorges,   up    the 

land ; 

Up  to  where  the  lonely  Desert 
Spreads  her  burning,  dreary 

sand : 
In  the  gorges  of  the  mountains, 

On  the  plain  beside  the  sea, 
Dwelt  my  stern  and  cruel  mas- 
ters, 
The  black  Moors  of  Barbary. 

Ten  long  years  I  toiled  among 

them, 
Hopeless  —  as  I  used  to  say  ; 


Now  I  know  Hope  burnt  within 

me 

Fiercer,  stronger,  day  by  day : 
Those  dim  years  of  toil  and  sor- 
row 

Like  one  long,  dark  dream  ap- 
pear ; 

One    long    day  of  weary  wait- 
ing,— 
Then  each  day  was  like  a  year. 

How  I  cursed  the  land,  —  my  pris- 
on ; 

How  I  cursed  the  serpent  sea, 
And  the  Demon  Fate  that  show- 
ered 

All  her  curses  upon  me; 
I  was  mad,  I  think —  God  pardon 
Words  so  terrible  and  wild  — 
This  voyage  would  have  been  my 

last  one, 
For  I  left  a  wife  and  child. 

Never  did  one  tender  vision 

Fade  away  before  my  sight, 
Never  once  through  all  my  slav- 
ery, 

Burning  day  or  dreary  night ; 

In  my  soul  it  lived,  and  kept  mo, 

Now  I  feel,  from  black-despair, 

And    my    heart   was    not    quite 

broken, 

While  they  lived  and  blest  me 
there. 

When  at  night  my  task  was  over, 
I  would  hasten  to  the  shore ; 

(All  was  strange  and  foreign  in- 
land, 
Nothing  I  had  known  before  ;) 


HOMEWARD  BOUND. 


21 


Strange  looked  the  bleak  moun- 
tain passes, 
Strange  the  red  glare  and  black 

shade, 

And  the  Oleanders,  waving 
To   the  sound    the  fountains 
made. 

Then  I  gazed  at  the  great  Ocean, 
Till  she  grew  a  friend  again  ; 
And  because  she  knew  old  Eng- 
land, 

I  forgave  her  all  my  pain  : 
So  the  blue  still  sky  above  me, 
With  its  white  clouds'  fleecv 

fold, 
And  the  glimmering  stars  (though 

brighter), 

Looked  like  home    and  days  of 
old. 

And  a  calm  would  fall  upon  me, 
Worn  perhaps  with  work  and 

pain, 
The  wild,    hungry  longing  left 

me, 

And  I  was  myself  again  : 
Looking  at  the  silver  waters, 
Looking  up  at  the  far  sky, 
Dreams  of  home  and  all  I  left 

there 
Floated  sorrowfully  by. 

A  fair  face,  but  pale  with  sor- 
row, 
With     blue    eyes,   brimful  of 

tears, 

And  the  little  red  mouth,  quiver- 
ing 
With  a  smile,  to  hide  its  fears ; 


Holding  out  her  baby  towards  me, 
From  the  sky  she  looked  on 
me; 

So  it  was  that  last  I  saw  her, 
As  the  ship  put  out  to  sea. 

Sometimes  (and  a  pang  would 

seize  me 
That  the  years  were  floating 

on) 

I  would  strive  to  paint  her,  al- 
tered, 

And  the  little  baby  gone  : 
She  no  longer  young  and  girlish, 
The    child    standing  by    her 

knee, 
And    her   face    more   pale   and 

saddened 
With  the  weariness  for  me. 

Then  I  saw,  as  night  grew  darker, 

How  she  taught  my  child  to 

pray, 
Holding  its  small  hands  together, 

For  its  father,  far  away; 
And  I  felt  her  sorrow,  weighing 

Heavier  on  me  than  my  own, 
Pitying  her  blighted  spring-time, 

And  her  joy  so  early  flown. 

Till  upon  my  hands  (now  hard- 
ened 
With  the  rough,  harsh  toil  of 

years) 

Bitter  drops  of  anguish  falling, 
Woke  me  from  my  dream,  to 

tears  ; 

Woke  me  as  a  slave,  an  outcast, 
Leagues  from  home,  across  the 
deep; 


22 


HOMEWARD  BOUND. 


So  —  though   you   may   call   it 

childish  — 
So  I  sobbed  myself  to  sleep. 

Well,  the  years  sped  on,  —  my 

Sorrow, 
Calmer,     and     yet     stronger 

grown, 

Was  my  shield  against  all  suffer- 
ing, 

Poorer,  meaner  than  her  own. 
Thus  my  cruel  master's  harsh- 
ness 

Fell  upon  me  all  in  vain, 
Yet  the  tale  of  what  we  suffered 
Echoed   back  from   main   to 


You  have  heard  in  a  far  country 

Of  a  self-devoted  band, 
Vowed  to  rescue  Christian  cap- 
tives 

Pining  in  a  foreign  land. 
And  these  gentle-hearted  stran- 
gers 
Year  by  year  go  forth  from 

Rome, 
In  their  hands  the  hard-earned 

ransom, 
To  restore  some  exiles  home. 

I  was   freed :    they   broke    the 

tidings 

Gently  to  me  :  but  indeed 
Hour  by  hour  sped  on,  I  knew 

not 
What  the  words   meant  —  I 

was  freed ! 

Better  so,  perhaps ;  while  sorrow 
(More  akin  to  earthly  things) 


Only    strains    the    sad    heart's 

fibres, 

Joy,  bright  stranger,    breaks 
the  strings. 

Yet  at  last  it  rushed  upon  me, 
And  my  heart  beat  full  and 

fast; 
What   were  now  my  years  of 

waiting, 

What  was  all  the  dreary  past  1 
Nothing  —  to     the     impatient 

throbbing 

I  must  bear  across  the  sea : 
Nothing  —  to  the  eternal  hours 
Still  between  my  home  and 
me! 

r 

How  the  voyage  passed,  I  know 

not; 
Strange  it  was  once  more  to 

stand 

With  my  countrymen  around  me, 

And  to  clasp  an  English  hand. 

But,  through  all,  my  heart  was 

dreaming 
Of  the  first  words   I  should 

hear, 

In  the  gentle  voice  that  echoed, 
Fresh  as  ever,  on  my  ear. 

Should  I  see  her  start  of  wonder, 

And  the  sudden  truth  arise, 
Flushing  all  her  face  and  light- 
ening 
The  dimmed  splendor  of  her 

eyes  1 
Oh !    to    watch    the    fear    and 

doubting 
Stir  the  silent  depths  of  pain, 


HOMEWARD  BOUND. 


23 


And   the   rush   of  joy  —  then 

melting 
Into  perfect  peace  again. 

Ami   the  child!  —  but  why   re- 
member 

Foolish  fancies  that  I  thought  ? 

Every  tree  and  every  hedge-row 

From  the  well-known  past  I 

brought ; 

I  would  picture  my  dear  cottage, 
See   the    crackling   wood-fire 

burn, 

And  the  two  beside  it  seated, 
Watching,  waiting,  my  return. 

So,  at  last  we  reached  the  harbor. 

I  remember  nothing  more 
Till  I  stood,  my  sick  heart  throb- 
bing, 

With  my  hand  upon  the  door. 
There  I  paused  —  I  heard  her 

speaking ; 
Low,  soft,  murmuring  words 

she  said ; 
Then   I   first   knew    the   dumb 

terror 
I  had  had  lest  she  were  dead. 

It  was  evening  in  late  autumn, 

And  the  gusty  wind  blew  chill ; 
Autumn  leaves  were  falling  round 

me, 

And  the  red  sun  lit  the  hill. 
Six-and-twenty   years    are   van- 
ished 
Since   then,  —  I  am  old  and 

gray,  — 

But  I  never  told  to  mortal 
What  I  saw,  until  this  day. 


She  was  seated  by  the  fire, 

In  her  arms  she  held  a  child, 
Whispering   baby-words    caress- 
ing, 
And    then,    looking    up,    she 

smiled ; 
Smiled  on  him  who  stood  beside 

lier  — 

Oh  !  the  bitter  truth  was  told, 
In  her  look  of  trusting  fondness — 
I  had  seen  the  look  of  old ! 

But  she  rose  and  turned  towards 

me 
(Cold    and    dumb    I    waited 

there) 
With  a  shriek  of  fear  and  terror, 

And  a  white  face  of  despair. 
He  had  been   an  ancient  com- 
rade, — 

Not  a  single  word  we  said, 

While  we  gazed  upon  each  other, 

He  the  living  :  I  the  dead ! 

I  drew  nearer,  nearer  to  her, 

And  I  took  her  trembling  hand, 
Looking  on  her  white  face,  look- 
ing 

That  her  heart  might  under- 
stand 
All  the  love  and  all  the  pity 

That  my  lips  refused  to  say,  — 
I  thank  God  no  thought  save 

sorrow 

Rose  in  our  crushed   hearts 
that  day. 

Bitter   tears    that   desolate   mo- 
ment, 
Bitter,  bitter  tears  we  wept, 


24 


LIFE  AND  DEATH. 


We  three  broken  hearts  together, 
While  the   baby  smiled   and 

slept. 
Tears   alone  —  no   words   were 

spoken, 

Till  he —  till  her  husband  said 
That  my  boy,  (I  had  forgotten 
The  poor  child,)  that  he  was 
dead. 

Then  at  last  I  rose,  and,  turning, 
Wrung  his  hand,  but  made  no 

sign; 
And  I  stooped  and  kissed  her 

forehead 

Once  more,  as  if  she  were  mine. 
Nothing  of  farewell  I  uttered, 

Save  in  broken  words  to  pray 
That  God  would  ever  guard  and 

bless  her,  — 
Then  in  silence  passed  away. 

Over  the  great  restless  ocean 

Six-and-twenty  years  I  roam  ; 
All  my  comrades,  old  and  weary, 

Have  gone  back  to  die  at  home. 
Home !    yes,    I    shall   reach    a 
haven, 

I,  too,  shall  reach  home  and 

rest ; 
I  shall  find  her  waiting  for  me 

With  our  baby  on  her  breast. 


LIFE   AND   DEATH. 

"  WHAT  is  Life,  father  ?  " 

"  A  Battle,  my  child, 
Where  the  strongest  lance  may 
fail, 


Where  the  wariest  eyes  may  be 

beguiled, 
And  the  stoutest  heart  may 

quail. 
Where  the  foes  are  gathered  on 

every  hand, 

And  rest  not  day  or  night, 
And  the  feeble  little  ones  must 

stand 
In  the  thickest  of  the  fight." 

"What  is  Death,  father?" 

"  The  rest,  my  child, 
When  the  strife  and  the  toil  are 

o'er; 
The  angel  of  God,  who,  calm 

and  mild, 

Says  we  need  fight  no  more  ; 
Who,  driving  away  the  demon 

band, 
Bids   the   din   of    the    battle 

cease ; 
Takes  banner   and   spear   from 

our  failing  hand, 
And    proclaims    an     eternal 
peace." 

"  Let  me  die,  father !     I  tremble, 

and  fear 

To    yield    in     that    terrible 
strife  !  " 

"  The  crown  must  be  won  for 

Heaven,  dear, 
In  the  battle-field  of  life  : 
My  child,  though  thy  foes  are 

strong  and  tried, 
He  loveth  the  weak  and  small ; 
The  angels  of  heaven  are  on  thy 

side, 
And  God  is  over  all !  " 


CLEANSING  F1KES. 


25 


NOW. 


RISE  !  for  the  day  is  passing, 
And  you  lie  dreaming  on ; 
The  others   have   buckled   their 

armor, 
And   forth    to    the    fight   are 

gone  : 
A   place   in    the    ranks  awaits 

you, 
Each  man  has  some  part  to 

play; 
The  Past   and   the  Future  are 

nothing, 

In  the  face  of  the  stern  To- 
day. 

Rise  from  your  dreams  of  the 

Future,  — 
Of  gaining  some  hard-fought 

field  ; 

Of  storming  some  airy  fortress, 

Or  bidding  some  giant  yield  ; 

Your  Future  has  deeds  of  glory, 

Of  honor  (God  grant  it  may  !) 

But    your    arm   will    never    be 

stronger, 
Or  the  need  so  great  as  To-day. 

Rise  !  if  the  Past  detains  you, 
Her    sunshine     and     storms 

forget ; 
No  chains  so  unworthy  to  hold 

you 

As  those  of  a  vain  regret : 
Sad  or  bright,  she  is  lifeless  ever ; 
Cast  her  phantom  arms  away, 
Nor  look  back,  save^to  learn  the 

lesson 
Of  a  nobler  strife  To-day. 


Rise !  for  the  day  is  passing ; 
The  sound  that  you  scarcely 

hear 

Is  the  enemy  marching  to  bat- 
tle:— 

Arise  !  for  the  foe  is  here  ! 
Stay  not  to  sharpen  your  weap- 
ons, 

Or  the  hour  will  strike  at  last, 
When,  from  dreams  of  a  coming 

battle, 
You  may  wake  to  find  it  past ! 


CLEANSING  FIRES. 

LET  thy  gold  be  cast  in  the  fur- 
nace, 
Thy  red  gold,  precious  and 

bright ; 

Do  not  fear  the  hungry  fire, 
With  its  caverns  of  burning 

light  ; 
And  thy  gold  shall  return  more 

precious, 
Free   from    every    spot    and 

stain  ; 

For  gold  must  be  tried  by  fire, 
As  a  heart  must  be  tried  by 
pain ! 

In  the  cruel  fire  of  Sorrow 
Cast  thy  heart,  do  not  faint  or 
wail ; 

Let  thy  hand  be  firm  and  steady, 
Do  not  let  thy  spirit  quail  : 

But  wait  till  the  trial  is  over, 
And  take  thy  "heart  again ; 


26 


THE   VOICE   OF   THE   WIND. 


For  as  gold  is  tried  by  fire, 
So  a  heart  must  be  tried  by 
pain! 

I  shall  know  by  the  gleam  and 

glitter 

Of  the  golden  chain  you  wear, 
By  your   heart's  calm  strength 

in  loving, 
Of  the  fire  they  have  had  to 

bear. 

Beat  on,  true  heart,  forever ; 
Shine  bright,    strong   golden 

chain ; 

And  bless  the  cleansing  fire, 
And  the  furnace  of  living  pain ! 


THE   VOICE    OF   THE 
WIND. 

LET  us  throw  more  logs  on  the 

fire! 
We  have  need  of  a  cheerful 

light, 
And  close  round  the  hearth  to 

gather, 

For  the  wind  has  risen  to-night. 
With  the  mournful  sound  of  its 

wailing 
It  has  checked  the  children's 

•glee, 

And  it  calls  with  a  louder  clamor 
Than  the  clamor  of  the  sea. 

Hark  to  the  voice  of 
the  wind ! 

Let  us  listen  to  what  it  is  saying, 
Let  us  hearken  to  where  it  has 
been ; 


For  it  tells,  in  its  terrible  crying, 

The  fearful  sights  it  has  seen. 

It  clatters  loud  at  the  casements, 

Eound  the  house  it  hurries  on, 

And  shrieks  with  redoubled  fury 

When  we  say,  "  The  blast  is 

gone ! " 

Hark  to  the  voice  of 
the  wind ! 

It  has  been  on  the  field  of  battle, 
Where  the  dying  and  wounded 

lie; 
And  it  brings  the  last  groan  they 

uttered, 
And   the   ravenous  vulture's 

cry. 
It  has  been  where  the  icebergs 

were  meeting, 
And   closed    with    a    fearful 

crash : 
On   shores   where  no   foot   has 

wandered 

It  has  heard  the  waters  dash. 
Hark  to  the  voice  of 
the  wind  ! 

It  has  been  on  the  desolate  ocean 
When  the  lightning  struck  the 

mast; 
It   has    heard    the    cry    of    the 

drowning, 

Who  sank  as  it  hurried  past ; 
The  words  of  despair  and  an- 
guish, 
That  were  heard  by  no  living 

ear, 

The  gun  that  no  signal  answered, 
It  brings  them  all  to  us  here. 
Hark  to  the  voice  of 
the  wind ! 


TREASURES. 


27 


lhas  been  on  the  lonely  moor- 
land, 

'Where  the  treacherous  snow- 
drift .lies, 
here  the  traveller,  spent  and 

weary, 
Gasped    fainter    and    fainter 

cries ; 

jbas  heard  the  bay  of  the  blood- 
hounds 
'On  the  track  of  the  hunted 

slave, 
ic  lash  and  the  curse  of  the 

master, 

And  the  groan  that  the  cap- 
tive gave. 

Hark  to   the  voice  of 
the  wind  ! 

has  swept  through  the  gloomy 

forest, 
Where  the  sledge  was  urged 

to  its  speed, 
here  the  howling  wolves  were 

rushing 
On  the  track  of  the  panting 

steed, 
'here  the  pool  was  black  and 

lonely, 
It  caught  up  a  splash  and  a 

nly  the  bleak  sky  heard  it, 
And  the  wind  as  it  hurried  by. 
Hark  to  the  voice  of 
the  wind ! 

hen  throw  more  logs  on  the 

fire, 
Since  the   air   is    bleak   and 

cold, 


And  the  children  are  drawing 

nigher, 
For  the  tales  that  the  wind 

has  told. 

So  closer  and  closer  gather 
Round  the  red  and  crackling 

light; 
And  rejoice  (while  the  wind  is 

blowing) 

We  are   safe  and   warm   to- 
night. 

Hark  to  the  voice  of 
the  wind ! 


TREASURES. 

LET  me  count  my  treasures, 
All  my  soul  holds  dear, 

Given  me  by  dark  spirits 
Whom  I  used  to  fear. 

Through  long  days  of  anguish, 
And  sad  nights,  did  Pain 

Forge  my  shield,  Endurance, 
Bright  and  free  from  stain  ! 

Doubt,  in  misty  caverns, 
'Mid  dark  horrors  sought, 

Till  my  peerless  jewel, 
Faith,  to  me  she  brought. 

Sorrow,  that  I  wearied 
Should  remain  so  long, 

Wreathed  my  starry  glory, 
The  bright  Crown  of  Song. 

Strife,  that  racked  my  spirit 
Without  hope  or  rest, 


28 


WAITING. 


Left  the  blooming  flower, 
Patience,  on  my  breast. 

Suffering,  that  I  dreaded, 
Ignorant  of  her  charms, 

Laid  the  fair  child,  Pity, 
Smiling,  in  my  arms. 

So  I  count  my  treasures, 
Stored  in  days  long  past, 

And  I  thank  the  givers, 
Whom  I  know  at  last ! 


SHINING    STARS. 

SHINE,  jre  stars  of  heaven, 

On  a  world  of  pain  ! 
See  old  Time  destroying 

All  our  hoarded  gain  ; 
All  our  sweetest  flowers, 

Every  stately  shrine, 
All  our  hard-earned  glory, 

Every  dream  divine ! 

Shine,  ye  stars  of  heaven, 

On  the  rolling  years  ! 
See  how  Time,  consoling, 

Dries  the  saddest  tears, 
Bids  the  darkest  storm-clouds 

Pass  in  gentle  rain, 
While  upspring  in  glory 

Flowers  and  dreams  again  ! 

Shine,  ye  stars  of  heaven, 

On  a  world  of  fear  ! 
See  how  Time,  avenging, 

Bringeth  judgment  here : 
Weaving  ill-won  honors 

To  a  fiery  crown ; 


Bidding  hard  hearts  perish ; 
Casting  proud  hearts  down. 

Shine,  ye  stars  of  heaven, 

On  the  hours'  slow  flight! 
See  how  Time,  rewarding, 

Gilds  good  deeds  with  light 
Pays  with  kingly  measure ; 

Brings  earth's  dearest  prize ; 
Or,  crowned  with  rays  diviner, 

Bids  the  end  arise  ! 


WAITING. 

"  WHEREFORE  dwell  so  sad  ar 
lonely 

By  the  desolate  sea-shore, 
With  the  melancholy  surges 

Beating  at  your  cottage  door? 

"  You    shall    dwell     beside    the 

castle 
Shadowed     by     our     ancient 

trees ; 
And   your   life    shall   pass    on 

gently, 

Cared  for,   and   in   rest  and 
ease." 

"  Lady,  one  who  loved  me  dearly 
Sailed  for  distant  lands  away  ; 

And  I  wait  here  his  returning 
Hopefully  from  day  to  day. 

"  To  my  door  I  bring  my  spin- 
ning, 

Watching  every  ship  I  see  ; 
Waiting,  hoping,  till  the  sunset 

Fades  into  the  western  sea. 


THE  CRADLE-SONG   OF   THE  POOR. 


29 


After  sunset,  at  my  casement, 
Still  I  place  a  signal  light; 
[c  will  see  its  well-known  shin- 
ing 

Should    his    ship    return    at 
night. 

Lady,  see  your  infant  smiling, 
With  its  flaxen  curling  hair,  — 

remember  when  your  mother 
Was  a  baby  just  as  fair. 

I  was  watching  then,  and  hop- 
ing: 

Years     have     brought    great 

change  to  all ; 

'o   my  neighbors  in   their  cot- 
tage, 

To  you  nobles  at  the  hall. 

Not  to  me,  —  for  I  am  waiting, 
And   the  years   have  fled   so 
fast, 

must  look  at  you  to  tell  me 
That  a  weary  time  has  past ! 

When  I  hear  a  footstep  coining 
On  the  shingle  —  years  have 

fli-d  — 

ct  amid  a  thousand  others, 
I  shall  know  his  quick,  light 
tread. 

When  I  hear  (to-night  it  may 

be) 

Some  one  pausing  at  my  door, 
shall   know   the  gay,  soft  ac- 
cents, 

Heard  and  welcomed  oft  he- 
lore  ! 


"  So  each  day  I  am  more  hopeful, 
lie  may  come  before  the  night ; 

Every  sunset  I  feel  surer 

He  must  come  ere  morning 
light. 

"  Then  I  thank  you,  noble  lady, 

But  I  cannot  do  your  will : 
Where  he  left  me  he  must  find 

me, 

Waiting,    watching,    hoping, 
still ! " 


THE     CRADLE-SONG     OF 
THE   POOH. 

HUSH  !     I  cannot  bear  to  see  thee 

Stretch  thy  tiny  hands  in  vain  ; 

Dear,  I  have  no  bread  to  give 

thce, 
Nothing,   child,   to   ease    thy 

pain  ! 
When  God  sent  thce  first  to  bless 

me, 
Proud,  and  thankful  too,  was 

I; 

Xow,  my  darling,  I,  thy  mother, 
Almost  long  to  see  thee  die. 
Sleep,  my  darling,  thou 

art  weary  ; 

God  is  good,  but  life  is 
dreary. 

I  have  watched  thy  beauty  fading. 
And  thy  strength  sink  dr.y  l>\ 

day, 
Soon,  I  know,  will   Want  and 

Fever 
Take  thy  little  life  away. 


30 


BE  STRONG. 


Famine  makes  thy  father  reckless, 
Hope  has  left  both  him  and 

me; 

We  could  suffer  all,  my  baby, 
Had  we  but  a  crust  for  thec. 
Sleep,  my  darling,  thou 

art  weary ; 

God  is  good,  but  life  is 
dreary. 

Better  thou  shouldst  perish  early, 
Starve  so    soon,   my  darling 

one, 
Than  in  helpless  sin  and  sorrow 

Vainly  live,  as  I  have  done. 
Better  that  thy  angel  spirit 
With  my  joy,  rny  peace,  were 

flown, 
Than  thy  heart  grew  cold  and 

careless, 

Reckless,    hopeless,    like    my 
own. 

Sleep,  my  darling,  thou 

art  weary ; 

God  is  good,  but  life  is 
dreary. 

I  am  wasted,  dear,  with  hunger, 

And  my  brain  is  all  opprest, 
I  have  scarcely  strength  to  press 

thee, 

Wan  and  feeble,  to  my  breast. 

Patience,  baby,  God  will  help  us, 

Death  will  come  to  thee  and 

me, 

He  will  take  us  to  his  heaven, 
Where  no  want  or  pain  can  be. 
Sleep,  my  darling,  thou 

art  weary ; 

God  is  good,  but  life  is 
dreary. 


Such  the  plaint  that,  late  and 

early, 

Did  we  listen,  we  might  hear 
Close  beside  us,  —  but  the  thun- 
der 

Of  a  city  dulls  our  car. 
Every    heart,    as    God's    bright 

Angel, 

Can  bid  one  such  sorrow  cense ; 
God  has  glory  when  his  children 
Bring  his  poor  ones  joy  and 
peace ! 

Listen,  nearer  while  she 

sings 

Sounds  the  fluttering  of 
wings ! 


BE   STRONG. 

BE  strong  to  hope,  O  Heart ! 

Though  day  is  bright, 
The  stars  can  only  shine 

In  the  dark  night. 
Be  strong,  0  Heart  of  mine, 

Look  towards  the  light ! 

Be  strong  to  bear,  0  Heart ! 

Nothing  is  vain : 
Strive  not,  for  life  is  care, 

And  God  sends  pain  ; 
Heaven  is  a-bove,  and  there 

Rest  will  remain ! 

Be  strong  to  love,  O  Heart ! 

Love  knows  not  wrong ; 
Didst     thou    love  —  creatur 
even, 

Life  were  not  long; 
Didst  thou  love  God  in  heaven, 

Thou  wouldst  be  stron-r ! 


GOD'S  GIFTS. 


31 


GOD'S    GIFTS. 

GOD  gave  a  gift  to  Earth  :  a  child, 
Weak,  innocent,  and  undcfiled, 
Opened    its    ignorant   eyes    aiid 
smiled. 

It  lay  so  helpless,  so  forlorn, 
Earth  took  it  coldly  and  in  scorn, 
Cursing   the   day  when  it   was 
born. 

She   gave   it   first    a    tarnished 

name, 

For  heritage,  a  tainted  fame, 
Then   cradled    it    in  want    and 

shame. 

All  influence  of  Good  or  Right, 
All  ray  of  God's  most  holy  light, 
She  curtained  closely  from  its 
sight. 

Then  turned  her  heart,  her  eyes 

away, 

Ready  to  look  again,  the  day 
Its  little  feet  began  to  stray. 

In  dens  of  guilt  the  baby  played, 
Where  sin,  and  sin  alone,  was 

made 
The  law  that  all  around  obeyed. 

With  ready  and  obedient  care, 
He  learnt  the  tasks  they  taught 

him  there ; 
Black  sin  for  lesson,  — oaths  for 

prayer. 

Then  Earth  arose,  and,  in  her 
might, 


To  vindicate  her  injured  right, 
Thrust  him  in  deeper  depths  of 
night ; 

Branding  him  with  a  deeper 
brand 

Of  shame,  he  could  not  under- 
stand, 

The  felon  outcast  of  the  land. 


God  gave  a  gift  to  Earth  :  a  child, 
Weak,  innocent,  and  undefined, 
Opened   its   ignorant  eyes   and 
smiled. 

And  Earth  received  the  gift,  and 

cried 
Her  joy  and  triumph  far  and 

wide, 
Till  echo  answered  to  her  pride. 

She  blessed  the  hour  when  first 

he  came 
To  take  the  crown  of  pride  and 

fame, 
Wreathed  through  long  ages  for 

his  name. 

Then  bent  her  utmost  art  and 

skill 
To  train  the  supple  mind  and 

will, 
And  guard  it  from  a  breath  of  ill. 

She  strewed  his  morning  path 

with  flowers, 
And  Love,  in  tender  dropping 

showers, 
Nourished  the  blue  and  dawning 

hours. 


A   TOMB  IN  GHENT. 


She  shed,   in   rainbow  hues  of 
light, 

A.    halo    round    the    Good    and 

Right, 
To  tempt  and  charm  the  baby's 

sight. 

A  ml  every  step,  of  work  or  play, 
\Vaslit  by  some  such  da/.zlingray, 
Till     morning    brightened    into 
day. 

And  then  the  World  arose,  and 

said, 

Let  added  honors  now  be  shed 
On  such  a  noble  heart  and  head  ! 

O  World,  both  gifts  were  pure 

and  bright, 

Holy  and  sacred  in  God's  sight :  — 
God  will  judge  them  and  thee 

aright! 


A  TOMB   IN   GHENT. 

A  SMILING  look  she  had,  a  figure 

slight, 
With  cheerful  air,  and  step  both 

quick  and  light; 
A  strange  and  foreign  look  the 

maiden  bore, 
That  suited  the  quaint  Belgian 

dress  she  wore ; 
Yet  the  blue,  fearless  eyes  in  her 

.     fair  face, 
And  her  soft  voice,  told  her  of 

English  race; 
And  ever,  as  she  flitted  to  and 

fro, 


She  sang,  (or  murmured,  rather,) 

soft  and  low, 
Snatches  of  song,  as  if  she  did 

not  know 
That  she  was  singing,  but  the 

happy  load 
Of  dream  and  thought  thus  from 

her  heart  o'crflowed : 
And  while  on   household  cares 

she  passed  along. 
The  air  would  bear  me  fragments 

of  her  song ; 
Not  such  as  village  maidens  sing, 

and  few 
The    framcrs   of   her   changing 

music  knew ; 
Chants  such  as  heaven  and  earth 

first  heard  of  when 
The  master  Palestrina  held  the 

pen. 
But  I  with  awe  had  often  turned 

the  page, 

Yellow  with  time,  and  half  de- 
faced by  age, 
And  listened,  with   an  ear  not 

quite  unskilled, 
While    heart   and    soul   to    the 

grand  echo  thrilled ; 
And  much  I  marvelled,  as  her 

cadence  fell 
From  the  Laudate,  that  I  knew 

so  well, 
Into     Scarlatti's    minor    fugue, 

how  she 

Had  learned  such  deep  and  sol- 
emn harmony. 
But  what  she  told  I  set  in  rhyme, 

as  meet 
To  chronicle  the  influence,  dim 

and  sweet, 


A    TOMB  AV  GUI: XT. 


33 


'Xeath  which  her  young  and  in- 
nocent life  had  grown : 

Would  that  my  words  were  sim- 
ple as  her  own. 


Many  years  since,  an  English 

workman  went 
Over  the  seas,  to  seek  a  home  in 

Ghent, 
Where  English  skill  was  prized ; 

nor  toiled  in  vain ; 
Small,    yet   enough,    his    hard- 
earned  daily  gain. 
He  dwelt  alone,  — in  sorrow,  or 

in  pride. 
He  mixed  not  with  the  workers 

by  his  side ; 
He  seemed  to  care  but  for  one 

present  joy,  — 
To  tend,  to  watch,  to  teach  his 

sickly  boy. 
Severe  to  all  beside,  yet  for  the 

child 
He  softened  his  rough  speech  to 

soothings  mild; 
For  him  he  smiled,  with  him  each 

day  he  walked 
Through     the     dark,      gloomy 

streets ;  to  him  he  talked 
Of    home,     of     England,     and 

strange  stories  told 
Of  English  heroes  in  the  days  of 

old; 
And    (when   the   sunset   gilded 

roof  and  spire) 
The  marvellous  tale  which  never 

seemed  to  tire : 
How   the   gilt   dragon,    glaring 

fiercely  down 


From  the  great  belfry,  watching 

all  the  town, 
Was  brought,  a  trophy  of  the 

wars  divine, 

By  a  Crusader  from  far  Palestine, 
And  given  to  Bruges  ;  and  how 

Ghent  arose, 
And  how  they  struggled  long  as 

deadly  foes, 
Till  Ghent,  one  night,  by  a  brave 

soldier's  skill, 
Stole  the  great  dragon ;  and  she 

keeps  it  still. 
One  day  the  dragon  —  so  't  is 

said  —  will  rise, 
Spread  his    bright   wings,    and 

glitter  in  the  skies, 
And  over  desert  lands  and  azure 

seas 
Will  seek  his  home  'mid  palm 

and  cedar  trees. 
So,  as  he  passed  the  belfry  every 

day, 
The  boy  would  look  if  it  were 

flown  away ; 
Each  day  surprised  to  find  it 

watching  there, 
Above  him,   as   he   crossed   the 

ancient  square, 
To  seek  the  great  cathedral,  that 

had  grown 
A  home    for   him  —  mysterious 

and  his  own. 

Dim  with   dark   shadows  of 

the  ages  past, 
St.  Bavon  stands,  solemn  and 

rich  and  vast ; 
The  slender  pillars,  in  long 

vistas  spread, 


3i 


A    TOMB  IN  GHENT. 


Like  forest  arches  meet  and  close 

o'erheatl ; 
So  high  that,  like  a  weak  and 

doubting  prayer, 
Ere  it  can  float  to   the  carved 

angels  there, 
The  silver  clouded  incense  faints 

in  air : 
Only  the  organ's  voice,  with  peal 

on  peal, 
Can  mount  to  where  those  far-off 

angels  kneel. 
Here  the  pale  boy,  beneath  a  low 

side-arch, 
Would  listen  to  its  solemn  chant 

or  march ; 

Folding  his  little  hands,  his  sim- 
ple prayer 
Melted  in  childish  dreams,  and 

both  in  air : 
While  the  great  organ  over  all 

would  roll, 
Speaking  strange  secrets  to  his 

innocent  soul, 
Bearing  on  eagle-wings  the  great 

desire 
Of  all  the  kneeling  throng,  and 

piercing  higher 
Than  aught  but  love  and  prayer 

can  reach,  until 
Only  the  silence  seemed  to  listen 

still ; 
Or  gathering  like  a  sea  still  more 

and  more, 
Break   in    melodious   waves    at 

heaven's  door, 
And  then  fall,  slow  and  soft,  in 

tender  rain, 
Upon     the     pleading,    longing 

hearts  again. 


Then  he  would  watch  the  rosy 
sunlight  glow, 

That  crept  along  the  marble  floor 
below, 

Passing,  as  life  does,  with  the 
passing  hours, 

Now  by  a  shrine  all  rich  with 
gems  and  flowers, 

Now  on  the  brazen  letters  of  a 
tomb, 

Then,  leaving  it  again  to  shade 
and  gloom, 

And  creeping  on,  to  show,  dis- 
tinct and  quaint, 

The  kneeling  figure  of  some 
marble  saint : 

Or  lighting  up  the  carvings 
strange  and  rare, 

That  told  of  patient  toil,  and 
reverent  care; 

Ivy  that  trembled  on  the  spray, 
and  ears 

Of  heavy  corn,  and  slender  bul- 
rush spears, 

And  all  the  thousand  tangled 
weeds  that  grow 

In  summer,  where  the  silver  riv- 
ers flow; 

And  demon  -  heads  grotesque, 
that  seemed  to  glare 

In  impotent  wrath  on  all  the 
beauty*  there : 

Then  the  gold  rays  up  pillared 
shaft  would  climb, 

And  so  be  drawn  to  heaven,  at 
evening  time. 

And  deeper  silence,  darker  shad- 
ows flowed 

On  all  around,  only  the  windows 
glowed 


A    TOMS  JN  GHENT. 


35 


With  blazoned  glory,  like  the 
shields  of  light 

Archangels  bear,  who,  armed 
with  love  and  might, 

Watch  upon  heaven's  battle- 
ments at  night. 

Then  all  was  shade ;  the  silver 
lamps  that  gleamed, 

Lost  in  the  daylight,  in  the  dark- 
ness seemed 

Like  sparks  of  fire  in  the  dim 
aisles  to  shine, 

Or  trembling  stars  before  each 
separate  shrine. 

Grown  half  afraid,  the  child 
would  leave  them  there, 

And  come  out,  blinded  by  the 
noisy  glare 

That  burst  upon  him  from  the 
busy  square. 

The  church  was  thus  his  home 

for  rest  or  play  ; 
And  as  he  came  and  went  again 

each  day, 
The  pictured  faces  that  he  knew 

so  well 
Seemed  to  smile  on  him  welcome 

and  farewell. 

But  holier,  and  dearer  far  than  all, 
One  sacred  spot  his  own  he  loved 

to  call ; 
Save  at  mid-day,  half  hidden  by 

the  gloom  ; 
The  people  call  it  The   White 

Maiden's  Tomb : 
For  there  she  stands  ;  her  folded 

hands  are  pressed 
Together,  and  laid  softly  on  her 

breast, 


As  if  she  waited  but  a  word  to 

rise 
From  the  dull  earth,  and  pass  to 

the  blue  skies ; 
Her  lips  expectant  part,  she  holds 

her  breath, 
As  listening  for  the  angel  voice 

of  death. 
None  know  how  many  years  have 

seen  her  so, 
Or  what  the  name  of  her  who 

sleeps  below. 
And  here  the  child  would  come, 

and  strive  to  trace, 
Through  the  dim   twilight,   the 

pure,  gentle  face 
He  loved  so  well,  and  here  he  oft 

would  bring 
Some  violet-blossom  of  the  early 

spring, 

And,  climbing  softly  by  the  fret- 
ted stand, 
Not  to  disturb  her,  lay  it  in  her 

hand  ; 
Or,    whispering    a    soft,    loving 

message  sweet, 
Would  stoop  and  kiss  the  little 

marble  feet. 
So,    when    the   organ's    pealing 

music  rang, 
He  thought  amid  the  gloom  the 

Maiden  sang ; 
With  reverent,  simple  faith   by 

her  he  knelt, 
And  fancied  what  she  thought, 

and  what  she  felt ; 
"  Glory  to  God,"  re-echoed  from 

her  voice, 
And  then  his  little  spirit  would 

rejoice ; 


36 


A    TOMB  IN  GHENT. 


Or  when    the  Requiem   sohbed 

upon  the  air, 
His  baby  tears  dropped  with  her 

mournful  prayer. 


So  years  fled  on,  while  childish 

fancies  past, 
The  childish  love  and  simple  faith 

could  last. 
The  artist-soul  awoke  in  him,  the 

flame 
Of  genius,  like  thelight  of  Heaven, 

came 
Upon  his  brain,  and  (as  it  will, 

if  true) 
It  touched  his  heart  and  lit  his 

spirit,  too. 
His  father  saw,  and  with  a  proud 

content 
Let  him  forsake  the  toil  where 

he  had  spent 
His  youth's  first  years,  and  on 

one  happy  day 
Of  pride,    before    the   old    man 

passed  away, 
He  stood  with  quivering  lips,  and 

the  big  tears 
Upon  his  cheek,  and  heard  the 

dream  of  years 
Living  arid  speaking  to  his  very 

heart,  — 
The  low,  hushed  murmur  at  the 

wondrous  art 

Of  him  who  with  young,  trem- 
bling fingers  made 
The  great  church-organ  answer 

as  he  played ; 
And,  as  the  uncertain  sound  grew 

full  and  strong, 


Rush  with  harmonious  spirit- 
wings  along, 

And  thrill  with  master-power 
the  breathless  throng. 


The  old  man  died,  and  years 

passed  on,  and  still 
The  young   musician    bent   his 

heart  and  will 
To  his  dear  toil.     St.  Cavon  now 

had  grown 
More  dear  to  him,  and  even  more 

his  own ; 
And  as  he  left  it  every  night  he 

prayed 
A  moment  by  the  archway  in  the 

shade, 
Kneeling  once  more  within  the 

sacred  gloom 
Where      the     White      Maiden 

watched  upon  her  tomb. 
His  hopes  of  travel  and  a  world- 
wide fame, 
Cold  Time  had  sobered,  and  his 

fragile  frame ; 
Content  at  last  only  in  dreams 

to  roam, 
Away    from    the  tranquillity  of 

home ; 
Content  that  the  poor  dwellers 

by  his  side 
Saw  in  him  but  the  gentle  friend 

and  guide, 
The    patient    counsellor   in    the 

poor  strife 

And  petty  details  of  their  com- 
mon life, 
Who  comforted  where  woe  and 

grief  might  fall, 


A    TOMB   IN  GHENT. 


37 


Xor  slighted  any  pain  or  want  as 

small, 
But  whose  great  heart  took  in 

and  felt  for  all. 

Still  he  grew  famous;  —  many 

came  to  be 

His  pupils  in  the  art  of  harmony. 
One  day  a  voice  floated  so  pure 

and  free 
Above  his,  music,  that  he  turned 

to  see 
What  angel  sang,  and  saw  before 

his  eyes, 
What  made  his  heart  leap  with 

a  strange  surprise, 
His  own  White   Maiden,  calm, 

and  pure,  and  mild, 
As  in   his  childish  dreams  she 

sang  and  smiled  ; 
Her  eves  raised  up  to  Heaven, 

her  lips  apart, 
And  music  overflowing  from  her 

heart. 
But  the  faint  blush  that  tinged 

her  cheek  betrayed 
No  marble  statue,  but  a  living 

maid  ; 
Perplexed   and   startled   at   his 

wondering  look, 
Her  rustling  score  of  Mozart's 

Sanctus  shook ; 
The  uncertain  notes,  like  birds 

within  a  snare, 
Fluttered    and    died    upon    the 

trembling  air. 

Days   passed ;  each   morning 

saw  the  maiden  stand, 
Her  eyes  cast  down,  her  lesson  in 
her  hand, 


Eager   to   study,    never   weary, 

while 
Repaid  by   the  approving  word 

or  smile 
Of  her  kind    master;  days  and 

months  fled  on ; 
One  day  the  pupil  from  the  choir 

was  gone ;     • 
Gone  to  take  light,  and  joy,  and 

youth  once  more 
Within  the  poor  musician's  hum- 
ble door ; 

And  to  repay,  with  gentle,  hap- 
py art, 

The  debt  so  many  owed  his  gen- 
erous heart. 
And  now,  indeed,  was  one  who 

knew  and  felt 
That  a  great  gift  of  God  within 

him  dwelt ; 
One  who  could  listen,  who  could 

understand, 
Whose  idle  work  dropped  from 

her  slackened  hand, 
While  with  wet  eyes  entranced 

she  stood,  nor  knew 
How  the  melodious  winged  hours 

flew; 
Who  loved  his  art  as  none  had 

loved  before, 
Yet  prized  the  noble,  tender  spirit 

more. 
While  the  great  organ  brought 

from  far  and  near 
Lovers  of  harmony  to  praise  and 

hear, 
Unmarked  by  aught  save  what 

filled  every  day, 
Duty,  ami  toil,  and  rest,  years 


427873 


passed  away : 


33 


A    TOMB  IN  GHENT. 


And  now  by  the  low  archway  in 

the  shade 
Beside  her  mother  knelt  a  little 

maid, 
Who  through  the  great  cathedral 

learned  to  roam, 
Climb  to  the  choir,  and  bring  her 

father  home ; 
And  stand,  demure  and  solemn 

by  his  side, 
Patient  till  the  last  echo  softly 

died ; 
Then  place  her  little  hand  in  his, 

and  go 
Down  the  dark  winding  stair  to 

where  below 
The   mother  knelt,  within    the 

gathering  gloom 
Waiting    and    praying    by   the 

Maiden's  Tomb. 


So  their  life  went,  until,  one 

winter's  day, 
Father   and   child    came    there 

alone  to  pray, — 
The  mother,  gentle  soul,  had  fled 

away  ! 
Their  life  was  altered  now,  and 

yet  the  child 
Forgot  her  passionate  grief  in 

time,  and  smiled, 
Half    wondering     why,     when 

spring's  fresh  breezes  came, 
To  see  her  father  was  no  more 

the  same. 
Half  guessing  at  the  shadow  of 

his  pain, 
And  then  contented  if  he  smiled 

again, 


A  sad,  cold  smile,  that  passed  in 

tears  away, 
As  reassured  she  ran  once  more^ 

to  play. 
And  now  each  year  that  added 

grace  to  grace, 
Fresh  bloom  and  sunshine  to  the 

young  girl's  face, 
Brought  a  strange  light  in  the 

musician's  eyes, 
As  if  he  saw  some  starry  hope 

arise, 
Breaking  upon  the  midnight  of 

sad  skies. 
It  might   be    so :    more   feeble 

year  by  year, 
The  wanderer  to  his  resting-place 

drew  near. 
One  day    the   Gloria  he   could 

play  no  more, 
Echoed  its  grand  rejoicing  as  of 

yore ; 
His  hands  were  clasped,  his  weary 

head  was  laid, 
Upon  the  romb  where  the  White 

Maiden  prayed ; 
Where    the    child's    love    first 

dawned,  his  soul  first  spoke, 
The     old     man's     heart     there 

throbbed  its  last  and  broke. 
The   grave   cathedral   that  had 

nursed  his  youth, 
Had  helped  his   dreaming,   and 

had  taught  him  truth, 
Had  seen  his  boyish  grief  and 

baby  tears, 
And  watched   the  sorrows   and 

the  joys  of  years, 
Had  lit  his  fame  and  hope  with 

sacred  rays, 


THE  ANGEL   OF  DEATH. 


39 


And  consecrated  sad  and  happy 

days, 
Had  blessed  his  happiness,  and 

soothed  his  pain, 
Now  took   her   faithful   servant 
home  again. 

He  rests  in  peace :  some  trav- 
ellers mention  yet 

"An  organist  whose  name  they 
all  forget. 

He  has  a  holier  and  a  nobler  fame 

By  poor  men's  hearths,  who  love 
and  bless  the  name 

Of  a  kind  friend ;  and  in  low 
tones  to-day 

Speak  tenderly  of  him  who 
passed  away. 

Too  poor  to  help  the  daughter 
of  their  friend, 

They  grieved  to  see  the  little  pit- 
tance end ; 

To  see  her  toil  and  strive  with 
cheerful  heart, 

To  bear  the  lonely  orphan's 
struggling  part; 

They  grieved  to  see  her  go  at 
last  alone 

To  English  kinsmen  she  had 
never  known : 

And  here  she  came ;  the  foreign 
girl  soou  found 

Welcome,  and  love,  and  plenty 
all  around, 

And  here  she  pays  it  back  with 
earnest  will, 

By  well-taught  housewife  watch- 
fulness and  skill ; 

Deep  in  her  heart  she  holds  her 
father's  name, 


And  tenderly  and  proudly  keeps 

his  fame ; 
And  while  she  works  with  thrifty 

Belgian  care, 
Past  dreams  of  childhood  float 

upon  the  air ; 

Some  strange  old  chant,  or  sol- 
emn Latin  hymn, 
That  echoed    through    the    old 

cathedral  dim, 
When  as  a  little  child  each  day 

she  went 
To  kneel  and  pray  by  an  old 

tomb  in  Ghent. 


THE    ANGEL   OF   DEATH. 

WHY   shouldst   thou    fear    the 

beautiful  angel.  Death, 
Who  waits  thee  at  the  portals 

of  the  skies, 

Ready  to  kiss  away  thy  strug- 
gling breath, 

Ready   with   gentle   hand   to 
close  thine  eyes  ? 

How  many  a  tranquil  soul  has 

passed  away, 
Fled  gladly  from  fierce  pain 

and  pleasures  dim, 
To  the  eternal  splendor  of  the 

day; 

And  many  a  troubled  heart 
still  calls  for  him. 

Spirits  too  tender  for  the  battle 

here 

Have    turned    from   life,   its 
hopes,  its  fears,  its  charms ; 


40 


A   DREAM. 


And  children,  shuddering  at  a 

world  so  drear, 
Have   smiling    passed    away 
into  his  arms. 

He  whom  thoti  fearest  will,  to 

ease  its  pain, 
Lay  his  cold  hand  upon  thy 

aching  heart : 
Will  soothe  the  terrors  of  thy 

troubled  brain, 

And  bid  the  shadow  of  earth's 
grief  depart. 

He  will  give  back  what  neither 

time,  nor  might, 
Nor    passionate    prayer,    nor 

longing  hope  restore, 
(Dear  as  to  long-blind  eyes  re- 
covered sight,) 

He  will  give  back  those  who 
are  gone  before. 

O,  what  were  life,  if  life  were 

all  ?     Thine  eyes 
Are  blinded  by  their  tears,  or 

thou  wouldst  see 
Thy  treasures  wait  thee  in  the 

far-off  skies, 

And  Death,   thy  friend,   will 
give  them  all  to  thee. 


A  DREAM. 

ALL  yesterday  I  was  spinning, 
Sitting  alone  in  the  sun ; 

And  the  dream  that  I  spun  was 

so  lengthy, 
It  lasted  till  day  was  done. 


I  heeded  not  cloud  or  shadow 
That  flitted  over  the  hill, 

Or   the   humming-bees,    or   the 

swallows, 
Or  the  trickling  of  the  rill. 

I  took  the  threads  for  my  spin- 
ning, 

All  of  blue  summer  air, 
And  a  flickering  ray  of  sunlight 

Was  woven  in  here  and  there. 

The   shadows  grew  longer  and 

longer, 

The  evening  wind  passed  by, 
And     the    purple     splendor    of 

sunset 
Was  flooding  the  western  sky. 

But  I  could  not  leave  my  spin- 
ning, 
For   so    fair   my   dream   had 

grown, 

I  heeded  not,  hour  by  hour, 
How  the  silent  day  had  flown. 

At  last  the   gray  shadows   fell 

round  me, 
And  the  night  came  dark  and 

chill, 
And  I  rose  and  ran  down  the 

valley, 
And  left  it  all  on  the  hill. 

I  went  up  the  hill  this  morning 
To  the  place  where  my  spin- 
ning lay, — 
There  was  nothing  but  glistening 

dew-drops 
Remained  of  my  dream  to-day. 


STRIVE,    WAIT,  AND  PRAY. 


41 


THE   PRESENT. 

Do  not  crouch  to-day,  and  wor- 
ship 
The  old  Past,  whose  life  is 

fled; 

Hush  your  voice  to  tender  rever- 
ence ; 
Crowned  he  lies,  but  cold  and 

dead : 

For  the  Present  reigns  our  mon- 
arch, 
With    an    added    weight    of 

hours ; 

Honor  her,  for  she  is  mighty! 
Honor  her,  for  she  is  ours  ! 

Sec  the  shadows  of  his  heroes 
Girt      around     her      cloudy 

throne ; 

Every  day  the  ranks  are  strength- 
ened 

By  great  hearts   to   him  un- 
known ; 
Noble     things     the   great   Past 

promised, 
Holy  dreams,  both  strange  and 

new ; 

But  the  Present  shall  fulfil  them, 
What  he  promised  she  shall  do. 

She  inherits  all  his  treasures, 

She  is  heir  to  all  his  fame, 
And  the  light  that  lightens  round 
her 

Is  the  lustre  of  his  name ; 
She  is  wise  with  all  his  wisdom, 

Living  on  his  grave  she  stands, 
On  her  brow  she  bears  his  laurels, 

And  his  harvest  in  her  hands. 


Coward,  can  she  reign  and  con- 
quer 

If  we  thus  her  glory  dim  1 
Let  us  fight  for  her  as  nobly 

As  our  fathers  fought  for  him. 
God,  who  crowns  the  dying  ages, 

Bids  her  rule,  and  us  obey,  -~- 
Bids  us  cast  our  lives  before  her, 

Bids  us  serve  the  great  To-day. 


CHANGES. 

MOURX,  O  rejoicing  heart ! 

The  hours  are  flying; 
Each  one  some  treasure  takes, 
Each  one  some  blossom  breaks, 

And  leaves  it  dying  ; 
The  chill  dark  night  draws  near, 

Thy  sun  will  soon  depart, 

And  leave  thcc  sighing ; 
Then  mourn,  rejoicing  heart, 

The  hours  are  flying ! 

Rejoice,  O  grieving  heart ! 

The  hours  fly  fast ; 
With  each  some  sorrow  dies, 
With  each  some  shadow  flies, 

Until  at  last 
The  red  dawn  in  the  east 

Bids  weary  night  depart, 

And  pain  is  past. 
Rejoice  then,  grieving  heart, 

The  hours  fly  fast ! 


STRIVE,    WAIT,    AND 
PRAY. 

STRIVE  ;  yet  I  do  not  promise 
The  prize  you  dream  of  to-day 


42 


THE   UNKNOWN  GRAVE. 


Will  not  fade  when  you  think 

to  grasp  it, 

And  melt  in  your  hand  away  ; 
But  another  and  holier  treasure, 
You  would  now  perchance  dis- 
dain, 

Will  come  when  your  toil  is  over, 
And  pay  you  for  all  your  pain. 

Wait ;  yet  I  do  not  tell  you 

The  hour  you  long  for  now 
Will  not  come  with  its  radiance 
vanished, 

And  a  shadow  upon  its  brow ; 
Yet  far  through  the  misty  future, 

With  a  crown  of  starry  light, 
An  hour  of  joy  you  know  not 

Is  winging  her  silent  flight. 

Pray  ;  though  the  gift  you  ask  for 

May  never  comfort  your  fears, 
May  never  repay  your  pleading, 

Yet  pray,  and  with  hopeful 

tears  ; 
An  answer,  not  that  you  long  for, 

But   diviner,   will   come   one 

day; 
Your  eyes  are  too  dim  to  see  it, 

Yet  strive,  and  wait,  and  pray. 


A   LAMENT   FOR   THE 
SUMMER. 

MOAN,  O  ye  Autumn  Winds ! 

Summer  has  fled, 
The   flowers   have   closed   their 
tender  leaves  and  die ; 


The  lily's  gracious  head 
All  low  must  lie, 

Because  the  gentle  Summer 
now  is  dead. 

Grieve,  O  ye  Autumn  Winds  ! 

Summer  lies  low ; 
The  rose's  trembling  leaves  will 

soon  be  shed, 
For  she  that  loved  her  so, 
Alas !  is  dead, 

And  one  by  one  her  loving 
children  go. 

Wail,  O  ye  Autumn  Winds  ! 

She  lives  no  more, 
The  gentle    Summer,  with  her 

balmy  breath, 
Still  sweeter  than  before 
When  nearer  death, 

And  brighter  every  day  the 
smile  she  wore ! 

Mourn,   mourn,    O    Autumn 

Winds, 

Lament  and  mourn  ; 
How  many  half-blown  buds  must 

close  and  die ; 

Hopes  with  the  Summer  born 
All  faded  lie, 

And  leave  us  desolate  and 
Earth  forlorn ! 


THE  UNKNOWN  GRAVE. 

No  name  to  bid  us  know 

Who  rests  below, 
No  word  of  death  or  birth, 


GIVE  ME   THY  HEART. 


43 


Only  the  grass's  wave, 
Over  a  mound  of  earth, 
Over  a  nameless  grave. 

Did  this  poor  wandering  heart 

In  pain  depart  ? 
Longing,  but  all  too  late, 

For  the  calm  home  again, 
Where  patient  watchers  wait, 

And  still  will  wait  in  vain. 

Did  mourners  come  in  scorn, 

And  thus  forlorn 
Leave  him,  with  grief  and  shame, 

To  silence  and  decay, 
And  hide  the  tarnished  name 

Of  the  unconscious  clay  ? 

It  may  be  from  his  side 

His  loved  ones  died, 
And,  last  of  some  bright  band, 

(Together  now  once  more,) 
lie  sought  his  home,  thg  land 

Where  they  had  gone  before. 

No  matter,  —  limes  have  made 

As  cool  a  shade, 
And  lingering  breezes  pass 

As  tenderly  and  slow, 
As  if  beneath  the  grass 

A  monarch  slept  below. 

No  grief,  though  loud  and  deep, 

Could  stir  that  sleep ; 
And  earth  and  heaven  tell 

Of  rest  that  shall  not  cease, 
Where  the  cold  world's  farewell 

FaJ.cs  into  endless  peace. 


GIVE  ME   THY  HEART. 

WITH  echoing   steps   the   wor- 
shippers 

Departed  one  by  one ; 
The  organ's  pealing  voice  was 

stilled, 

The  vesper  hymn  was  done ; 
The  shadows  fell  from  roof  and 

arch, 

Dim  was  the  incensed  air, 
One  lamp  alone,  with  trembling 

ray, 
Told  of  the  Presence  there  ! 

In    the  dark  church  she   knelt 

alone ; 

Her  tears  were  falling  fast ; 
"  Help,  Lord,"  she  cried,  "  the 

shades  of  death 
Upon  my  soul  are  cast ! 
Have  I  not  shunned  the  path  of 

sin, 

And  chosen  the  better  part? "  — • 
What  voice  came   through   the 

sacred  air  ?  — 
"  Jfy  child,  give  me  thy  Ileart !  " 

"  Have  I  not   laid  before  Thy 

shrine 
My  wealth,   O   Lord  ? "   she 

cried ; 
"  Have  I  kept  aught  of  gems  or 

gold, 

To  minister  to  pride  ? 
Have  Inotbadeyouth'sjoys  retire, 
And  vain  delights  depart  1 "  — 
But    sad    and    tender    was    the 

voice,  — 
"  My  child,  give  me  thy  Heart !  " 


44 


GIVE  ME   THY  HEART. 


"  Have  I  not,  Lord,  gone  day  by 

day 
Where     Thy    poor    children 

dwell ; 
And  carried  help,  and  gold,  and 

food? 

O  Lord,  Thou  knowcst  it  well ! 
From  many  a  house,  from  many 

a  soul, 

My  hand  bids  care  depart "  :  — 
More  sad,  more  tender  was  the 

voice,  — 
"  My  child,  give  me  thy  Heart !  " 

"  Have  I  not  worn  my  strength 

away 

With  fast  and  penance  sore? 
Have  I  not  watched  and  wept  1  " 

she  cried ; 
"  Did    Thy    dear    Saints    do 

more  ? 
Have  I  not  gained  Thy  grace, 

O  Lord, 
And    won     in    Heaven    my 

part  ?  "  — 

It  echoed  louder  in  her  soul,  — 
"  My  child,  give  me  thy  Heart ! 

"For  I  have  loved  thee  with  a 

love 

No  mortal  heart  can  show ; 
A  love  so  deep,  my  Saints  in 

heaven 

Its  depths  can  never  know  : 
When  pierced  and  wounded  on 

the  Cross, 
Man's   sin    and    doom    were 

mine, 

I  loved  thee  with  undying  love, 
Immortal  and  divine ! 


"  I  loved  thee  ere  the  skies  were 

spread  ; 

My  soul  bears  all  thy  pains  ; 
To    pain    thy    love    my    sacred 

Heart 

In  earthly  shrines  remains  : 
Vain  are  thy  offerings,  vain  thy 

sighs, 

Without  one  gift  divine  ; 
Give  it,  my  child,  thy  Heart  to 

me, 
And  it  shall  rest  in  mine  !  " 

In   awe    she   listened,   and   the 

shade 

Passed  from  her  soul  away  ; 
In  low  and  trembling  voice  she 

cried,  — 

"  Lord,  help  me  to  obey  ! 
Break  Thou  the  chains  of  earth, 

O  Lord, 

That  bind  and  hold  my  heart; 
Let    it    be    Thine,    and    Thine 


Let  none  with  Thee  have  part. 

"  Send  down,  O  Lord,  Thy  sa- 

cred fire  ! 

Consume  and  cleanse  the  sin 
That    lingers     still    within    its 

depths: 

Let  heavenly  love  begin. 
That   sacred  flame  Thy   Saints 

have  known, 
Kindle,  O  Lord,  in  me, 
Thou  above  all  the  rest  forever, 
And  all  the  rest  in  Thee." 

The  blessing  fell  upon  her  soul  ; 
Her  angel  by  her  side 


THE   WAYSIDE  INN. 


45 


Knew  that  the  hour  of  peace  was 

come ; 

Her  soul  was  purified  : 
The  shadows  fell  from  roof  and 

arch, 

Dim  was  the  incensed  air,  — 
But  Peace  went  with  iier  as  she 

left 
The  sacred  Presence  there  ! 


THE    WAYSIDE   INN. 

A  LITTLE  past  the  village 

The  Inn  stood,  low  and  white  ; 
Green  shady  trees  behind  it, 

And  an  orchard  on  tliu  right ; 
Where  over  the  green  paling 

The  red-checked  apples  hung, 
As  if  to  watch  how  wearily 

The  sign-board  creaked  and 
swung. 

The  heavy-laden  branches, 

Over  the  road  hung  low, 
Reflected  fruit  or  blossom 

From  the  wayside  well  below  ; 
Where  children,  drawing  water, 

Looked  up  and  paused  to  sec, 
Amid  the  apple-branches, 

A  purple  Judas-Tree. 

The  road  stretched  winding  on- 
ward 

For  many  a  weary  mile,  — 
So  dusty,  foot-sore  wanderers 

Would  pause  and  rest  awhile  ; 
And  panti:ig  horses  halted, 

And  travellers  loved  to  tell 


The  quiet  of  the  wayside  inn, 
The  orchard,  and  the  well. 

Here  Maurice  dwelt ;  and  often 

The  sunburnt  boy  would  stand 
Gazing  upon  the  distance, 

And  shading  with  his  hand 
His  eyes,  while  watching  vainly 

For  travellers,  who  might  need 
His  aid  to  loose  the  bridle, 

Aud  tend  the  weary  steed. 

And  once  (the  boy  remembered 

That  morning  many  a  day, — 
The  dew  lay  on  the  hawthorn, 

The  bird  sang  on  the  spray) 
A  train  of  horsemen,  nobler 

Than  he  had  seen  before, 
Up  from  the  distance  galloped, 

And  halted  at  the  door. 

Upon  a  milk-white  pony, 

Fit  for  a  faery  queen, 
Was  the  loveliest  little  damsel 

His  eyes  had  ever  seen  : 
A  serving-man  was  holding 

The  leading  rein,  to  guide 
The  pony  and  its  mistress, 

Who  cantered  by  his  side. 

Her  sunny  ringlets  round  her 

A  golden  cloud  had  made, 
While  her  large  hat  was  keeping 

Her  calm  blue  eyes  in  shade  : 
One  hand   held  fast   the  silke 
reins 

To  keep  her  steed  in  check, 
The    other    pulled    his    tangled 
mane, 

Or  stroked  his  glossy  neck. 


46 


THE    WAYSIDE  INN. 


And  as  the  boy  brought  water, 

And  loosed  the  rein,  he  heard 
The  sweetest  voice  that  thanked 
him 

In  one  low  gentle  word  ; 
She  turned  her  blue  eyes  from 
him, 

Looked  up,  and  smiled  to  see 
The  hanging  purple  blossoms 

Upon  the  Judas-Tree  ; 

And  showed  it  with  a  gesture, 
Half  pleading,  half  command, 

Till  he  broke  the  fairest  blossom, 
And  laid  it  in  her  hand  ; 

And  she  tied  it  to  her  saddle 
With  a  ribbon  from  her  hair, 

While    her    happy    laugh   rang 


Like  silver  on  the  air. 

But  the   champing  steeds  were 
rented,  — 

The  horsemen  now  spurred  on, 
And  down  the  dusty  highway 

They  vanished  and  were  gone. 
Years  passed,  and  many  a  trav- 
eller 

Paused  at  the  old  inn-door, 
But  the  little  milk-white  pony 

And    the   child    returned    no 


Years  passed,  the  apple-branches 
A  deeper  shadow  shed  ; 

And  many  a  time  the  Judas-Tree, 
Blossom  and  leaf,  lay  dead  ; 

When  on  the  loitering  western 

breeze 
Came  the  bells'  merry  sound, 


And   flowery   arches   rose,   and 

flags 
And  banners  waved  around. 

Maurice  stood  there  expectant : 

The  bridal  train  would  stay 
Some  moments  at  the  inn-door, 

The  eager  watchers  say  ; 
They  come,  —  the  cloud  of  dusi 
draws  near,  — 

'Mid  all  the  state  and  pride, 
He  only  sees  the  golden  hair 

And  blue  eyes  of  the  bride. 

The  same,  yet,  ah,  still  fairer ; 

He  knew  the  face  once  more 
That  bent  above  the  pony's  neck 

Years  past  at  that  inn-door  : 
Her  shy  and  smiling  eyes  looked 
round, 

Unconscious  of  the  place, 
Unconscious  of  the  eager  gaze 

He  fixed  upon  her  face. 

He  plucked  a  blossom  from  the 

tree, — 

The  Judas-Tree,  — and  cast 
Its  purple  fragrance  towards  the 

Bride, 

A  message  from  the  Past. 
The    signal    came,    the    horses 

plunged,  — 

Once  more  she  smiled  around  : 

The  purple  blossom  in  the  dust 

Lay  trampled  on  the  ground. 

Again  the  slow  years  fleeted, 
Their  passage  only  known 

By  the  height  the  Passion-flower 
Around  the  porch  had  grown; 


THE    WAYSIDE  INN. 


47 


And  many  a  passing  traveller 
Paused  at  the  old  inn-door, 
But  the  bride,  so  fair  and  bloom- 

i"£, 
The  bride  returned  no  more. 

One  winter  morning,  Maurice, 

Watching  the  branches  bare, 
Rustling  and  waving  dimly 

In  the  gray  and  misty  air, 
Saw  blazoned  on  a  carriage 

Once    more    the    well-known 

shield, 
The  stars  and  azure  fleurs-de-lis 

Upon  a  silver  field. 

He  looked  —  was   that  pale  wo- 
man, 

So  grave,  so  worn,  so  sad, 
The  child,  once  youngand  smiling, 

The  bride,  once  fair  and  glad  ? 
What   grief    had   dimmed   that 
glory, 

And  brought  that  dark  eclipse 
Upon  her  blue  eyes'  radiance, 

And  paled  those  trembling  lips  ? 

What  memory  of  past  sorrow, 

What  stab  of  present  pain, 
Brought   that  deep  look  of  an- 
guish, 

That  watched  the  dismal  rain, 
That  watched  (with  the  absent 
•pirit 

That  looks,  yet  does  not  see) 
The  dead  and  leafless  branches 

Upon  the  Judas-Tree  ? 

The  slow  dark  months  crept  on- 
ward 
Upon  their  icy  way, 


Till  April  broke  in  showers, 
And   Spring  smiled   forth  in 
May ; 

Upon  the  apple-blossoms 

The  sun  shone  bright  again, 

When  slowly  up  the  highway 
Came  a  long  funeral  train. 

The  bells  tolled  slowly,  sadly, 

For  a  noble  spirit  fled  ; 
Slowly,  in  pomp  and  honor, 

They  bore  the  quiet  dead. 
Upon  a  black-plumed  charger 

One  rode,  who  held  a  shield, 
Where  stars  and  azure  fleurs-de- 
lis 

Shone  on  a  silver  field. 

'Mid  all  that  homage  given 

To  a  fluttering  heart  at  rest, 
Perhaps  an  honest  sorrow 

Dwelt  only  in  one  breast. 
One  by  the  inn-door  standing 

Watched  with  fast  -  dropping 

tears 
The  long  procession  passing, 

And  thought  of  bygone  years. 

The  boyish,  silent  homage 

To  child  and  bride  unknown, 
The  pitying,  tender  sorrow 

Kept  in  his  heart  alone, 
Now  laid  upon  the  coffin 

With  a  purple  flower,  might 

be 

Told  to   the   cold,    dead   sleep- 
er; — 

The  rest  could  only  see 
A  fragrant  purple  blossom, 

Plucked  from  a  Judas-Tree. 


43 


THE  DARK  SIDE. 


VOICES  OF  THE  PAST. 

You  wonder  that  my  tears  should 

flow 
In    listening   to    that    simple 

strain ; 
That     those    unskilful     sounds 

should  fill 

My  soul  with  joy  and  pain  : 
How  can  you  tell  what  thoughts 

it  stirs 
Within  my  heart  again  ?j 

You  wonder  why  that  common 

phrase, 

So  all  unmeaning  to  your  ear, 
Should  stay  me  in  my  merriest 

mood, 

And  thrill  my  soul  to  hear : 
How  can  you  tell  what  ancient 

charm 
Has  made  me  hold  it  dear  ? 

You  marvel  that  I  turn  away 
From  all  those  flowers  so  fair 

and  bright, 
And  gaze  at  this  poor  herb,  till 

tears 

Arise  and  dim  my  sight : 

You  cannot  tell  how  every  leaf 

Breathes  of  a  past  delight. 

You  smile  to  see  me  turn  and 

speak 
With  one  whose  converse  you 

despise ; 
You  do  not  see  the  dreams  of  old 

That  with  his  voice  arise  : 
How  can  you  tell  what  links  have 

made 
Him  sacred  in  my  eyes  1 


0,  these  arc  Voices  of  the  Past, 
Links  of  a  broken  chain, 

Wings  that  can  hear  me  hack  to 

Times 
Which  cannot  come  again  ; 

Yet  God  forbid  that  I  should  lose 
The  echoes  that  remain  ! 


THE  DARK   SIDE. 

THOU  hast  done  well,  perhaps, 

To  lift  the  bright  disguise, 
And  lay  the  bitter  truth 

Before  our  shrinking  eyes  ; 
When  evil  crawls  below 

What  seems  so  pure  and  fair, 
Thine  eyes  are  keen  and  true 

To  find  the  serpent  there: 
And  yet  —  I  turn  away  ; 

Thy  task  is  not  divine,  — 
The  evil  angels  look 

On  earth  with  eyes  like  thine. 

Thou  hast  done  well,  perhaps, 

To  show  how  closely  wound 
Dark  threads  of  sin  and  self 

With  our  best  deeds  arc  found, 
How  great  and  noble  hearts, 

Striving  for  lofty  aims, 
Have  still  some  earthly  chord 

A  meaner  spirit  claims  ; 
And  yet — although  thy  task 

Is  well  and  fairly  done  — 
Mcthinks  for  such  as  thou 

There  is  a  holier  one. 

Shadows  there  are,  who  dwell 
Among  us,  yet  apart, 


MURMURS. 


Deaf  to  the  claim  of  God, 

Or  kindly  human  heart ; 
Voices  of  earth  and  heaven 

Call,  hut  they  turn  away, 
And  Love,  through  such  black 
night 

Can  see  no  hope  of  day ; 
And  yet  —  our  eyes  are  dim, 

And  thine  are  keener  far  : 
Then  gaze  till  thou  canst  see 

The  glimmer  of  some  star. 

The  black  stream  flows  along 

Whose  waters  we  despise,  — 
Show  us  reflected  there 

Some  fragment  of  the  skies ; 
'Neath  tangled  thorns  and  briers, 

(The  task  is  fit  for  thee,) 
Seek  for  the  hidden  flowers, 

We  are  too  blind  to  see ; 
Then  will  I  thy  great  gift 

A  crown  and  blessing  call ; 
Angels  look  thus  on  men, 

And  God  sees  good  in  all ! 


A  FIRST   SORROW. 

ARISE  !  this  day  shall  shine, 

Forevermore, 
To  thee  a  star  divine, 

On  Time's  dark  shore. 

Till  now  thy  soul  has  been 

All  glad  and  gay  : 
Bid  it  awake,  and  look 

At  grief  to-day ! 

No  shade  has  come  between 
Thee  and  the  sun ; 
3 


Like  some  long  childish  dream 
Thy  life  has  run  : 

But  now  the  stream  has  reached 

A  dark,  deep  sea, 
And  Sorrow,  dim  and  crowned, 

Is  waiting  thee. 

Each  of  God's  soldiers  hears 

A  sword  divine : 
Stretch  out  thy  trembling  hands 

To-day  for  thine ! 

To  each  anointed  Priest 
God's  summons  came : 

O  Soul,  he  speaks  to-day, 
And  calls  thy  name. 

Then,  with  slow  reverent  step, 

And  beating  heart, 
From  out  thy  joyous  days 

Thou  must  depart. 

And,  leaving  all  behind, 

Come  forth  alone, 
To  join  the  chosen  band 

Around  the  throne. 

Raise  up  thine  eyes  —  he  strong, 

Nor  cast  away 
The  crown  that  God  has  given 

Thy  soul  to-day ! 


MURMURS. 

WHY  wilt  thou  make  bright  mu- 
sic 

Give  forth  a  sound  of  pain  ? 
Why  wilt  thou  weave  fair  flowers 

Into  a  weary  chain  ? 


50 


MY  JOURNAL. 


Why  turn  each  cool  gray  shadow 
Into  a  world  of  fears  ? 

Why  say  the  winds  are  wailing  ? 
Why  call  the  dew-drops  tears  ? 

The  voices  of  happy  nature, 
And     the     Heaven's     sunny 
gleam, 

Reprove  thy  sick  heart's  fancies, 
Upbraid  thy  foolish  dream. 

Listen,  and  I  will  tell  thee 

The  song  Creation  sings, 
From  the  humming  of  bees  in 

the  heather, 
To  the  flutter  of  angels'  wings. 

An  echo  rings  forever, 

The  sound  can  never  cease ; 

It  speaks  to  God  of  glory, 
It  speaks  to  Earth  of  peace. 

Not  alone  did  angels  sing  it 
To  the  poor  shepherds'  ear  ; 

But  the  sphered  Heavens  chant  it, 
While  listening  ages  hear. 

Above  thy  peevish  wailing 

Rises  that  holy  song ; 
Above  Earth's  foolish  clamor, 

Above  the  voice  of  wrong. 

No  creature  of  God  's  too  lowly 
To  murmur  peace  and  praise  : 

When    the   starry   nights   grow 

silent, 
Then  speak  the  sunny  days. 

So  leave  thy  sick  heart's  fancies, 
And  lend  thy  little  voice 

To  the  silver  song  of  glory 
That  bids  the  world  rejoice. 


GIVE. 

SEE  the  rivers  flowing 

Downwards  to  the  sea, 
Pouring  all  their  treasures 

Bountiful  and  free : 
Yet  to  help  their  giving 

Hidden  springs  arise; 
Or,  if  need  be,  showers 

Feed  them  from  the  skies  ! 

Watch  the  princely  flowers 

Their  rich  fragrance  spread, 
Load  the  air  with  perfumes, 

From  their  beauty  shed  : 
Yet  their  lavish  spending 

Leaves  them  not  in  dearth, 
With  fresh  life  replenished 

By  their  mother  earth  ! 

Give  thy  heart's  best  treasures,  - 

From  fair  Nature  learn  ; 
Give  thy  love  —  and  ask  not, 

Wait  not  a  return  ! 
And  the  more  thou  spendest 

From  thy  little  store, 
With  a  double  bounty, 

God  will  give  thee  more. 


MY   JOURNAL. 

IT  is  a  dreary  evening ; 

The  shadows  rise  and  fall : 
With      strange      and      ghostly 
changes, 

They  flicker  on  the  wall. 

Make    the    charred    logs    burn 

brighter ; 
I  \vi!l  show  you,  by  their  blaze, 


MY  JOURNAL. 


51 


The  half-forgotten  record 
Of  bygone  things  and  days. 

Bring  here  the  ancient  volume ; 

The  clasp  is  old  and  worn, 
The  gold  is  dim  and  tarnished, 

And  the  faded  leaves  are  torn. 

The  dust  has  gathered  on  it,  — 
There  are  so  few  who  care 

To  read  what  Time  has  written 
Of  joy  and  sorrow  there. 

Look  at  the  first  fair  pages ; 

Yes,  I  remember  all : 
The  joys  now  seem  so  trivial, 

The  griefs  so  poor  and  small. 

Let  us  read  the  dreams  of  glory 
That  childish  fancy  made ; 

Turn  to  the  next  few  pages, 
And  see  how  soon  they  fade. 

Here,  where  still  waiting,  dream- 
ing, 

For  some  ideal  Life, 
The  young  heart  all  unconscious 

Had  entered  on  the  strife. 

See  how  this  page  is  blotted  : 
What,  could   those   tears   be 

mine? 

How  coolly  I  can  read  you 
Each  blurred  and   trembling 
line  ! 

Now  I  can  reason  calmly, 
And,  looking  back  again, 

Can  see  divinost  meaning 

Threading  each  separate  pain. 


Here  strong  resolve — how  bro- 
ken ; 

Rash  hope,  and  foolish  fear, 
And  prayers,  which  God  in  pity 

Refused  to  grant  or  hear. 

Nay,  I  will  turn  the  pages 
To  where  the  tale  is  told 

Of  how  a  dawn  diviner 

Flushed  the  dark  clouds  with 
gold. 

And  see,  that  light  has  gilded 
The  story,  —  nor  shall  set ; 

And,  though  in  mist  and  shadow, 
You  know  I  see  it  yet. 

Here  —  well,  it  does  not  matter, 
I  promised  to  read  all ; 

I  know  not  why  I  falter, 

Or  why  my  tears  should  fall ; 

You  see  each  grief  is  noted  ; 

Yet  it  was  better  so  — 
I  can  rejoice  to-day  —  the  pain 

Was  over,  long  ago. 

I  read  —  my  voice  is  failing, 
But  you  can  understand 

How  the  heart  beat  that  guided 
This  weak  and  trembling  hand. 

Pass  over  that  long  struggle, 
Read  where  the  comfort  came, 

Where  the  first  time  is  written 
Within  the  book  your  name. 

Again  it  comes,  and  oftener, 
Linked,  as  it  now  must  be, 

With  all  the  joy  or  sorrow 
That  Life  may  bring  to  me. 


A    CHAIN. 


So  all  the  rest  —  you  know  it : 
Now  shut  the  clusp  again, 

And  put  aside  the  record 
Of  bygone  hours  of  paiu. 

The  dust  shall  gather  on  it,    . 

I  will  not  read  it  more : 
Give  me  your  hand  —  what  was 
it 

We  were  talking  of  before  ? 

I  know  not  why  —  but  tell  me 
Of  something  gay  and  bright. 

It  is  strange —  my  heart  is  heavy, 
And  my  eyes  are  dim  to-night. 


A  CHAIN. 

THE  bond  that  links  our  souls 

together ; 
Will    it    last     through    stormy 

weather  ? 

Will  it  moulder  and  decay 
As  the  long  hours  pass  away  ? 
Will  it  stretch  if  Fate  divide  us, 
When    dark   and    weary    hours 

have  tried  us  ? 

O,  if  it  look  too  poor  and  slight, 
Let  us  break  the  links  to-night ! 

It   was    not   forged   by    mortal 

hands, 
Or  clasped  with  golden  bars  and 

bands; 
Save  thine  and  mine,  no  other 

eyes 

The  slender  link  can  recognize  : 
In  the  bright  light  it  seems  to 

fade  — 


And  it  is  hidden  in  the  shade ; 
While    Heaven  nor  Earth  have 

never  heard, 
Or  solemn  vow,  or  plighted  word. 

Yet  what  no  mortal  hand  could 

make, 

No  mortal  power  can  ever  break  • 
What  words  or  vows  could  never 

do, 

No  words  or  vows  can  make  un- 
true ; 

And  if  to  other  hearts  unknown 
The  dearer  and  the  more  our  own, 
Because  too  sacred  and  divine 
For  other  eyes,  save  thine  and 
mine. 

And  see,  though  slender,  it  is 

made 
Of  Love  and  Trust,  and  can  they 

fade? 
While,  if  too  slight  it  seem,  to 

bear 
The  breathings  of  the  summer 

air, 
We  know  that  it  could  bear  the 

weight 

Of  a  most  heavy  heart  of  late, 
And  as  each  day  and  hour  flew 
The  stronger  for  its  burden  grew. 

And,  too,  we  know  and  feel  again 
It  has  been  sanctified  by  pain, 
For  what  God  deigns  to  try  wiih 

sorrow 

He  means  not  to  decay  to-mor- 
row ; 

But  through  that  fiery  trial  last 
When  earthly  tics  and  bonds  arc 
past ; 


IN  C  0  MPL  E  TEN  ESS. 


53 


What   slighter   tilings   dare   not 

endure 
Will  make  our  Love  more  safe 

aiid  pure. 

Love  shall  be  purified  by  Pain, 
And  Pain  be  soothed  by  Love 

again  : 

So  let  us  now  take  heart  and  go 
Cheerfully  on,  through  joy  and 

woe ; 
No  change  the  summer  sun  can 

bring, 

Or  the  inconstant  skies  of  spring, 
Or    the    bleak    winter's    stormy 

weather, 
For  we  shall  meet  them,  Love, 

together ! 


THE   PILGRIMS. 

THE  way  is  long  and  dreary, 
The  path  is  bleak  and  bare ; 
Our  i'eet  are  worn  and  weary, 
But,  we  will  not  despair. 
More  heavy  was  Thy  burden, 
More  desolate  Thy  way  ;  — 
O  Lamb  of  God  who  takest 
The  sin  of  the  world  away, 
Have  mercy  on  us. 

The  snows  lie  thick  around  us 
In  the  dark  and  gloomy  night ; 
And  the  tempest  wails  above  us, 
And    the   stars    have   hid    their 

light ; 

But  blacker  was  the  darkness 
Hound    Calvary's     Cross     that 

day;- 


O  Lamb  of  God  who  takest 

The  sin  of  the  world  away, 

Have  mercy  on  us. 

Our  hearts  are  faint  with  sorrow, 
Heavy  and  hard  to  bear ; 
For  we  dread  the  bitter  morrow, 
But  we  will  not  despair  : 
Thou  knowest  all  our  anguish, 
And  Thou  wilt  bid  it  cease, — 
O  Lamb  of  God  who  takest 
The  sin  of  the  world  away, 
Give  us  Thy  Peace! 


INCOMPLETENESS. 

NOTHING   resting    in    its   own 

completeness 
Can  have  worth  or  beauty :  but 

alone 
Because   it  leads   and  tends  to 

further  sweetness, 
Fuller,   higher,  deeper  than  its 

own. 

Spring's  real  glory  dwells   not 
in  the  meaning, 

Gracious   though  it  be,   of  her 

blue  hours ; 

%But  is  hidden  in  her  tender  lean- 
ing 

To  the  Summer's  richer  wealth 
of  flowers. 

Dawn  is  fair,  because  the  mists 

fade  slowly 
Into  Day,  which  floods  the  world 

with  light ; 


A  LP;GEND  OF  BREGENZ. 


Twilight's  mystery  is  so  sweet 

and  holy 
Just   because  it  ends  in  starry 

Night 

Childhood's  smiles  unconscious 
graces  borrow 

From  Strife,  that  in  a  far-off  fu- 
ture lies ; 

And  angel  glances  (veiled  now 
by  Life's  sorrow) 

Draw  our  hearts  to  some  belove'd 
eyes. 

Life  is  only  bright  when  it  pro- 

ceedeth 
Towards  a  truer,  deeper  Life 

above ; 
Human  Love  is  sweetest  when  it 

leadeth 
To  a  more  divine  and  perfect 

Love. 

Learn  the  mystery  of  Progression 

duly : 
Do  not  call  each  glorious  change, 

Decay ; 
But  know  we  only  hold  our 

treasures  truly, 
When  it  seems  as  if  they  passed 

away. 

Nor  dare  to  blame  God's  gifts 

for  incompleteness ; 
In  that  want  their  beauty  lies : 

they  roll 
Towards  some  infinite  depth  of 

love  and  sweetness, 
Bearing  onward  man's  reluctant 

soul. 


A  LEGEND  OF  BREGENZ. 

GIKT  round  with  rugged  moun- 
tains 

The  fair  Lake  Constance  lies ; 
In  her  blue  heart  reflected 

Shine  back  the  starry  skies  ; 
And,  watching  each  white  cloud- 
let 

Float  silently  and  slow, 
You  think  a  piece  of  Heaven 

Lies  on  our  earth  below  ! 

Midnight  is  there :  and  Silence, 

Enthroned   in  Heaven,  looks 

down 
Upon  her  own  calm  mirror, 

Upon  a  sleeping  town  : 
For  Bregcnz,  that  quaint  city 

Upon  the  Tyrol  shore, 
Has  stood  above  Lake  Constance 

A  thousand  years  and  more. 

Her  battlements  and  towers, 

From  off  their  rocky  steep, 
Have  cast  their  trembling  shadow 

For  ages  on  the  deep  : 
Mountain,  and  lake,  and  valley, 

A  sacred  legend  know, 
Of  how  the  town  was  saved,  one 
night, 

Three  hundred  years  ago. 

Far  from  her  home  and  kindred, 

A  Tyrol  maid  had  fled, 
To  serve  in  the  Swiss  valleys, 

And  toil  for  daily  bread  ; 
And  every  year  that  fleeted 

So  silently  and  fast, 
Seemed  to  bear  farther  from  her 

The  memory  of  the  Past. 


A  LEGEND   OF  BREGENZ. 


55 


She  served  kind,  gentle  masters, 

Nor  asked  for  rest  or  change ; 
Her  friends  seemed  no  more  new 
ones, 

Their  speech  seemed  no  more 

strange ; 
And  when  she  led  her  cattle 

To  pasture  every  day, 
She  ceased  to  look  and  wonder 

On  which  side  Bregenz  lay. 

She  spoke  no  more  of  Bregenz, 

With  longing  and  with  tears  ; 
Her  Tyrol  home  seemed  faded 

In  a  deep  mist  of  years ; 
She  heeded  not  the  rumors 

Of  Austrian  war  and  strife ; 
Eac-h  day  she  rose,  contented, 

To  the  calm  toils  of  life. 

Yet,  when  her  master's  children 

Would  clustering  round  her 

stand, 
She  sang  them  ancient  ballads 

Of  her  own  native  land  ; 
And  when  at  morn  and  evening 

She  knelt  before  God's  throne, 
The  accents  of  her  childhood 

Hose  to  her  lips  alone. 

And  so  she  dwelt :  the  valley 

More  peaceful  year  by  year ; 
When  suddenly  strange  portents 

Of  some  great  deed   seemed 

near. 
The  golden  corn  was  bending 

Upon  its  fragile  stock, 
While  farmers,  heedless  of  their 
fields, 

Fated  up  and  down  in  talk. 


The  men  seemed  stern  and  al- 
tered, 

With  looks  cast  on  the  ground ; 
With  anxious  faces,  one  by  one, 

The  women  gathered  round  ; 
All  talk  of  flax,  or  spinning, 

Or  work,  was  put  away ; 
The  very  children  seemed  afraid 

To  go  alone  to  play. 

One  day,  out  in  the  meadow 

Witli  strangers  from  the  town, 
Some  secret  plan  discussing, 

The  men  walked  up  and  down. 
Yet  now  and  then  seemed  watch- 
ing 

A  strange  uncertain  gleam, 
That  looked  like  lances  'mid  the 
trees, 

That  stood  below  the  stream. 

At  eve  they  all  assembled, 

Then  care  and  doubt  were  fled ; 
With  jovial  langh  they  feasted ; 

The  board  was  nobly  spread. 
The  elder  of  the  village 

Rose  up,  his  glass  in  hand, 
And  cried,  "  We  drink  the  down- 
fall 

Of  an  accursed  land ! 

"  The  night  is  growing  darker, 

Ere  one  more  day  is  flown, 
Brcgenz,   our   foemen's    strong- 
hold, 

Bregenz  shall  be  our  own  !  " 
The  women  shrank  in  terror, 

(Yet  Pride,  too,  had  her  part,) 
But  one  poor  Tyrol  maiden 

Felt  death  within  her  heart. 


56 


A  LEGEND   OF  BREGENZ. 


Before  her  stood  fair  Bregenz  ; 

Once  more  her  towers  arose ; 
What  were  the  friends  beside  her? 

Only  her  country's  foes  ! 
The  faces  of  her  kinsfolk, 

The  days  of  childhood  flown, 
The  echoes  of  her  mountains, 

Reclaimed  her  as  their  own  ! 

Nothing  she  heard  around  her, 
(Though   shouts    rang   forth 

again,) 

Gone  were  the  green  Swiss  val- 
leys, 

The  pasture,  and  the  plain ; 
Before  her  eyes  one  vision, 

And  in  her  heart  one  cry, 
That  said,  "  Go  forth,  save  Bre- 
genz, 
And  then,  if  need  be,  die ! " 

With  trembling  haste  and  breath- 
less, 

With  noiseless  step,  she  sped  ; 
Horses  and  weary  cattle 

Were  standing  in  the  shed  ; 
She    loosed    the    strong,    white 

charger, 

That  fed  from  out  her  hand, 
She  mounted,  and  she  turned  his 

head 
Towards  her  native  land. 

Out  —  out  into  the  darkness  — 

Faster,  and  still  more  fast ; 
Tho-smooth  grass  flies  behind  her, 

The  chestnut  wood  is  past ; 
She  looks  up ;  clouds  are  heavy  : 

Why  is  her  steed  so  slow?  — 
Scarcely  the  wind  beside  them 

Can  pass  them  as  they  go. 


"  Faster !  "  she  cries,  "  0   fast- 
er!" 

Eleven  the  church-bells  chime : 
"  O  God,"  she  cries,  "  help  Bre- 
genz, 

And  bring  me  there  in  time !  " 
But  louder  than  bells'  ringing, 

Or  lowing  of  the  kine, 
Grows  nearer  in  the  midnight 

The  rushing  of  the  Khiue. 

Shall  not  the  roaring  waters 

Their  headlong  gallop  check  ? 
The  steed  draws  back  in  terror, 

She  leans  upon  his  neck 
To  watch  the  flowing  darkness ; 

The  bank  is  high  and  steep ; 
One   pause  —  he   staggers   for- 
ward, 

And  plunges  in  the  deep. 

She  strives  to  pierce  the  blackness, 

And  looser  throws  the  rein ; 
Her  steed  must  breast  the  waters 

That  dash  above  his  mane. 
How  gallantly,  how  nobly, 

He  struggles  through  the  foam, 
And  see  —  in  the  far  distance 

Shine  out  the  lights  of  home! 

Up  the  steep  banks  he  bears  her, 

And  now,  they  rush  a<rain 
Towards  the  heights  of  Bregenz, 

That  tower  above  the  plain. 
They  reach  the  gate  of  Bregenz, 

Just  as  the  midnight  rinjrs, 
And  out  come  serf  and  soldier 

To  meet  the  news  she  brings. 

Bregenz  is  saved  !    Ere  daylight 
Her  battlements  are  manned ; 


SOWING  AND  REAPING. 


57 


Defiance  greets  the  army 
That  mart-lies  on  the  land. 

And  if  to  deeds  heroic 

Should  endless  fame  be  paid, 

Bregenz  does  well  to  honor 
The  noble  Tyrol  maid. 

Three  hundred   years  are   van- 
ished, 

And  yet  upon  the  hill 
An  old  stone  gateway  rises, 

To  do  her  honor  still. 
And  there,  when  Bregenz  women 

Sit  spinning  in  the  shade, 
They  see  in  quaint  old  carving 

The  Charger  and  the  Maid. 

And  when,  to  guard  old  Bregenz, 

By  gateway,  street,  and  tower, 
The  warder  paces  all  night  long 

And  calls  each  passing  hour ; 
"  Nine,"   "  ten,"    "  eleven,"   he 
cries  aloud, 

And  then  (0  crown  of  Fame  !) 
When  midnight   pauses   in    the 
skies, 

He  calls  the  maiden's  name  ! 


A  FAREWELL. 

FAREWELL,  O  dream  of  mine  ! 

I  dare  not  stay  ; 
The  hour  is  come,  and  time 

Will  not  delay : 
Pleasant  and  dear  to  me 

Wilt  thou  remain  ; 
No  future  hour 

Brings  thce  again. 


She  stands,  the  Future  dim, 

And  draws  me  on, 
And  shows  me  dearer  joys,  — 

But  thou  art  gone  ! 
Treasures  and  Hopes  more  fair 

Bears  she  for  me, 
And  yet  I  linger, 

O  dream,  with  thee ! 

Other  and  brighter  days 

Perhaps  she  brings ; 
Deeper  and  holier  songs 

Perchance  she  sings ; 
But  thou  and  I,  fair  time, 

We  too  must  sever  :  — 
O  dream  of  mine, 

Farewell  forever ! 


SOWING  AND   REAPING. 

Sow  with  a  generous  hand  ; 
Pause  not  for  toil  or  pain  ; 
Weary  not  through  the  heat  of 

summer, 
Weary  not  through  the  cold 

spring  rain ; 

But  wait  till  the  autumn  comes 
For   the    sheaves   of    golden 
grain. 

Scatter  the  seed,  and  fear  not, 
A  table  will  be  spread  ; 

What  matter  if  you  are  too  weary 
To    eat     your    hard  -  earned 
bread  ! 

Sow,  while  the  earth  is  broken, 
For  the  hungry  must  be  fed. 


THE  STORM. 


Sow; — while  the  seeds  are  lying 
In   the  warm  earth's   bosom 

deep, 
And  your  warm  tears  fall  upon 

it, — 
They  will  stir  in  their  quiet 

sleep ; 
And  the   green  blades  rise  the 

quicker, 

Perchance,  for  the  tears  you 
weep. 

Then  sow ;  —  for  the  hours  are 

fleeting, 

And  the  seed  must  fall  to-day ; 
And  care  not  what  hands  shall 

reap  it, 
Or  if  you  shall  have  passed 

away 

Before  the  waving  cornfields 
Shall  gladden  the  sunny  day. 

Sow  ;  and  look  onward,  upward, 
Where   the   starry   light    ap- 
pears, — 
Where,  in  spite  of  the  coward's 

doubting, 
Or  your  own  heart's  trembling 

fears, 

You  shall  reap  in  joy  the  harvest 
You  have  sown  to-day  in  tears. 


THE    STORM. 

THE    tempest   rages   wild    and 

high, 
The  waves  lift  up  their  voice  and 

cry 


Fierce    answers    to   the    angry 


sky,- 


Mistrcre  Domine. 


Through   the  black   night   and 

driving  rain 
A    ship    is    struggling,    all   in 

vain, 

To  live  upon  the  stormy  main  ;  — 
Miserere  Domine. 

The   thunders   roar,    the   light- 
nings glare, 

Vain  is  it  now  to  strive  or  dare  ; 
A  cry  goes  up  of  great  despair,  — 
Miserere  Domine. 


The  stormy  voices  of  the  main, 
The  moaning  wind  and  pelting 

rain 

Beat   on   the   nursery   window- 
pane  :  — 

Miserere  Domine. 

Warm  curtained  was  the  little 

bed, 
Soft    pillowed    was     the    little 

head ; 
"  The  storm  will  wake  the  child," 

they  said :  — 

Miserere  Domine. 

Cowering    among    his    pillows 
white 

He  prays,  his  blue  eyes  dim  with 
fright, 

"Father,  save  those  at  sea  to- 
night ! "  — 

Miserere  Domine. 


WORDS. 


59 


The  morning  shone  all  clear  and 

gay, 

On  a  ship  at  anchor  in  the  bay, 

And  on  a  little  child  at  play,  — 

Gloria  tibi  Domine  ! 


WORDS. 

WORDS    are    lighter   than    the 

cloud-foam 

Of  the  restless  ocean  spray ; 
Vainer  than  the  trembling  shad- 
ow 
That    the    next    hour    steals 

away. 
By  the  fall  of  summer  rain-drops 

Is  the  air  as  deeply  stirred ; 
And  the  rose-leaf  that  we  tread 

on 
Will  outlive  a  word. 

Yet,  on  the  dull  silence  breaking 
With  alightningflash,aWord, 
Bearing  endless  desolation 

On    its    blighting    wings,    I 

heard : 
Earth    can    forge    no     keener 

weapon, 

Dealing  surer  death  and  pain, 
And  the  cruel  echo  answered 
Through  long  years  again. 

I  have  known  one  word   hang 
Btarlike 

O'er  a  dreary  waste  of  years, 
And  it  only  shone  the  brighter 
Looked  at  through  a  mist  of 
tears; 


While  a  weary  wanderer  gath- 
ered 
Hope  and  heart  on  Life's  dark 

way, 

By  its  faithful  promise,  shining 
Clearer  day  by  day. 

I  have  known  a  spirit,  calmer 
Than  the  calmest  lake,   and 

clear 
As  the  heavens  that  gazed  upon 

it, 

With  no  wave  of  hope  or  fear; 
But  a  storm  had  swept  across 

it, 
And  its  deepest  depths  were 

stirred, 

(Never,  never  more  to  slumber,) 
Only  by  a  word. 

I  have  known  a  word  more  gentle 
Than   the  breath  of  summer 

air; 
In  a  listening  heart  it  nestled, 

And  it  lived  forever  there. 
Not  the  beating  of  its  prison 

Stirred  it  ever,  night  or  day ; 
Only  with  the  heart's  last  throb- 
bing 
Could  it  fade  away. 

Words   are  mighty,  words   are 

living : 
Serpents  with  their  venomous 

stings, 
Or  bright  angels,  crowding  round 

us, 
With  heaven's  light  upon  their 

wings : 
Every  word  has  its  own  spirit, 


60 


A    TRYST   WITH  DEATH. 


True  or  false,  that  never  dies  ; 
Every  word  man's  lips  have  ut- 
tered 
Echoes  in  God's  skies. 


A  LOVE   TOKEN. 

Do  you  grieve  no  costly  offer- 
ing 

To  the  Lady  you  can  make  1 
One  there  is,  and  gifts  less  worthy 

Queens  have  stooped  to  take. 

Take  a  Heart  of  virgin  silver, 
Fashion  it  with  heavy  blows, 

Cast  it  into  Love's  hot  furnace 
When  it  fiercest  glows. 

With  Pain's  sharpest  point  trans- 
fix it, 

And  then  carve,  in  letters  fair, 
Tender  dreams  and   quaint   de- 
vices, 
Fancies  sweet  and  rare. 

Set  within  it  Hope's  blue  sap- 
phire, 

Many-changing  opal  fears, 
Blood-red  ruby-stones  of  daring, 

Mixed  with  pearly  tears. 

Aud  when  you  have  wrought  and 

labored 

Till  the  gift  is  all  complete, 
You  may  humbly  lay  your  offer- 
ing 
At  the  Lady's  feet. 


Should  her  mood  perchance  be 
gracious, 

With  disdainful,  smiling  pride, 
She  will  place  it  with  the  trinkets 

Glittering  at  her  side. 


A   TRYST  WITH  DEATH. 

I  AM  footsore  and  very  weary, 
But  I  travel  to  meet  a  Friend  : 

The  way  is  long  and  dreary, 
But  I  know  that  it  soon  must 
end. 

He  is  travelling  fast  like  the 
whirlwind, 

And  though  I  creep  slowly  on, 
We  are  drawing  nearer,  nearer, 

And  the  journey  is  almost  done. 

Through  the  heat  of  many  sum- 
mers, 
Through  many  a  springtime 

rain, 
Through  long  autumns  and  weary 

winters, 

I  have  hoped  to  meet  him,  in 
vain. 

I  know  that  he  will  not  fail  me, 
So  I  count  every  hour  chime, 

Every  throb  of  my  own  heart's 

beating, 
That  tells  of  the  flight  of  Time. 

On    the   day    of  my    birth    he 

plighted 
His  kingly  word  to  me  :  — 


F1DELIS. 


61 


I  have  seen  him  in  dreams  so  often, 
That  I  know  what  his  smile 
must  be. 

]  have  toiled  through  the  sunny 

woodland, 
Through  fields  that  haskcd  in 

the  light; 
And  through  the  lone  paths  in 

the  forest 
I  crept  in  the  dead  of  night. 

I  will  not  fear  at  his  coming, 
Although    I    must  meet    him 
alone ; 

lie  will  look  in  my  eyes  so  gently, 
And  take  my  hand  in  his  own. 

Like  a  dream  all  my  toil  will 

vanish, 
When  I  lay  my  head  on  his 

breast : 

But  the  journey  is  very  weary, 
And  he  only  can  give  me  rest ! 


FIDELIS. 

You  have  taken  back  the  promise 

That  you  spoke  so  long  ago  ; 
Taken  back  the  heart  you  gave 
me, — 

I  must  even  let  it  go. 
Where  Love  once  has  breathed, 
Pride  dieth  : 

So  I  struggled,  but  in  vain, 
First  to  keep  the  links  together, 

Then  to  piece  the  broken  chain,   i 


But  it  might  not  be  —  so  freely 

All  your  friendship  I  restore, 
And  the  heart  that  I  had  taken 

As  my  own  forevermore. 
No  shade  of  reproach  shall  touch 
you, 

Dread  no  more  a  claim  from 

me : 
But  I  will  not  have  you  fancy 

That  I  count  myself  as  free. 

I  am  bound  by  the  old  promise ; 
What  can  break  that  golden 

chain  ? 
Not  even  the  words  that  you  have 

spoken, 

Or  the  sharpness  of  my  pain  : 
Do  you  think,  because  you  fail 

me 

And  draw  back  your  hand  to- 
day, 
That  from  out  the  heart  I  gave 

you 
My  strong  love  can  fade  away  ? 

It  will  live.     No  eyes  may  see  it ; 

In  my  soul  it  will  lie  deep, 
Hidden  from  all ;  but  I  shall  feel 
it 

Often  stirring  in  its  sleep. 
So  remember,  that  the  friendship, 

Which  you  now   think    poor 

and  vain, 
Will  endure  in  hope  and  patience, 

Till  you  ask  for  it  again. 

Perhaps    in  some  long  twilight 

hour, 

Like  those  we  have  known  of 
old, 


62 


THE  SAILOR  BOY. 


When  past  shadows  gather  round 

you, 
And  your  present  friends  grow 

cold, 
You  may  stretch  your  hands  out 

towards  me,  — 
Ah  !  you  will  —  I  know  not 

when  — 

I  shall  nurse  my  love  and  keep  it 
Faithfully,  for  you,  till  then. 


A   SHADOW. 

WHAT    lack    the    valleys    and 

mountains 

That  once  were  green  and  gay? 
What   lack  the    babbling   foun- 
tains ? 

Their  voice  is  sad  to-day. 
Only  the  sound  of  a  voice, 
Tender  and  sweet  and  low, 
That  made  the  earth  rejoice, 
A  year  ago ! 

What  lack  the  tender  flowers  ? 

A  shadow  is  on  the  sun  : 
What  lack  the  merry  hours, 
That   I   long  that  they  were 

done  ? 

Only  two  smiling  eyes, 
That  told  of  joy  and  mirth  ; 
They  are  shining  in  the  skies, 
I  mourn  on  earth  ! 

What  lacks  my  heart,  that  makes 
it 

So  weary  and  full  of  pain, 
That  trembling  Hope  forsakes  it, 

Never  to  come  a<iain  ? 


Only  another  heart, 
Tender  and  all  mine  own, 
In  the  still  grave  it  lies ; 
I  weep  alone ! 


THE    SAILOR  BOY. 

Mr  Life  you  ask  of?  why,  you 

know 

Full  soon  my  little  Life  is  told ; 
It  has  had  no  great  joy  or  woe, 
For  I  am  only  twelve  years  old. 
Erelong  I  hope  I  shall  have  been 
On  my  first  voyage,  and  wonders 

seen. 

Some  princess  I  may  help  to  free 
From  pirates  on  a  far-off  sea; 
Or,  on  some  desert  isle  be  left, 
Of  friends  and  shipmates  all  bereft. 

For  the  first  time  I  venture 

forth 
From  our  blue  mountains  of  the 

north. 
My  kinsman  kept  the  lodge  thatj 

stood 
Guarding  the  entrance  near  the' 

wood, 
By  the  stone  gateway  gray  and 

old, 

With  quaint  devices  carved  about,, 
And  broken  shields;  while  drag- 
ons bold 
Glared   on    the   common    world) 

without : 

And  the  long  trembling  ivy  spray 
Half  hid  the  centuries'  decay. 
Ill  solitude  aud  bilence  grand 


THE  SAILOR  BOY. 


63 


The  castle  towered   above   the 

land : 
The  castle  of  the  Earl,   whose 

name 
(Wrapped  in  old  bloody  legends) 

came 
Down  through  the  times  when 

Truth  and  Right 
Bent  down  to  armed  Pride  and 

Might. 
He  owned  the   country  far  and 

near  ; 
And,  for  some  weeks  in  every 

year, 
(When  the   brown  leaves  were 

falling  fast 
And  the  long,  lingering  autumn 

past,) 
He   would  come  down  to  hunt 

the  deer, 

With  hound  and  horse  in  splen- 
did pride. 

The  story  lasts  the  live-long  year, 
The    peasant's    winter    evening 

fills, 

When  he  is  gone  and  they  abide 
In  the  lone  quiet  of  their  hills. 

I  longed,  too,  for  the  happy 

night, 
When,  all   with  torches   flaring 

bright, 
The    crowding   villagers   would 

stand, 

A  patient,  eager,  waiting  band, 
Until  the  signal  ran  like  flame, 
"  They  come  !  "  and,  slackening 

speed,  they  came. 
Outriders    first,    in    pomp    and 

state, 


Pranced  on  their  horses  through 

the  gate  ; 
Then  the  four  steeds  as  black  as 

night, 
All  decked  with  trappings  blue 

and  whit£, 
Drew    through   the  crowd    that 

opened  wide, 
The  Earl  and  Countess  side  by 

side. 
The  stern  grave  Earl,  with  for 

mal  smile 
And  glistening  eyes  and  stately 

pride, 

Could  ne'er  my  childish  gaze  be- 
guile 
From   the  fair  presence   by  his 

side. 
The  lady's  soft  sad  glance,  her 

eyes, 

(Like  stars  that  shone  in  sum- 
mer skies,) 

Her  pure  white  face  so  calmly  bent, 
With  gentle  greetings  round  her 

sent; 
Her  look,  that  always  seemed  to 

gaze 
Where  the  blue  past  had  closed 

again 
Over   some   happy  shipwrecked 

days, 
With  all  their  freight  of  love  and 

pain  : 

She  did  not  even  seem  to  see 
The  little  lord  upon  her  knee. 
And  yet  he  was  like  angel  fair, 
With    rosy   cheeks    and   golden 

hair, 
That  fell  on  shoulders  white  as 

snow : 


64 


TUE  SAILOR  BOY. 


But  the  blue  eyes  that  shone  below 
His  clustering  rings  of  auburn 

curls 
Were  not  his  mother's,  but  the 

Earl's. 

• 

I  feared  the  Earl,  so  cold  and 

grim, 

I  never  dared  be  seen  by  him. 
When  through  our  gate  he  used 

to  ride, 
My  kinsman   Walter   bade   me 

hide ; 

He  said  he  was  so  stern. 
So,  when   the  hunt   came   past 

our  way, 

I  always  hastened  to  obey, 
Until  I  heard  the  bugles  play 
The  notes  of  their  return. 
But  she,  — my  very  heart-strings 

stir 
Whene'er   I   speak    or  think  of 

her,  — 
The   whole   wide    world    could 

never  see 

A  noble  lady  such  as  she, 
So  full  of  angel  charity. 

Strange    things    of    her   our 

neighbors  told 

In  the  long  winter  evenings  cold, 
Around    the  fire.     They  would 

draw  near 
And  speak  half-whispering,  as  in 

fear; 
As   if    they    thought    the    Earl 

could  hear 

Their  treason  'gainst  his  name. 
They  thought  the  story  that  his 

pride 


Had  stooped  to  wed  a  low-born 

bride, 

A  stain  upon  his  fame. 
Some    said    't  was    false ;    there 

could  not  be 

Such  blot  on  his  nobility  : 
But  others  vowed  that  they  had 

heard 

The  actual  story  word  for  word, 
From    one    who    well    my  lady 

knew, 
And  had  declared  the  story  true. 

In  a  far  village,  little  known, 
She  dwelt  —  so    ran  the  tale  — 

alone. 
A   widowed   bride,  yet,   oh !  so 

bright, 
Shone  through  the  mist  of  grief, 

her  charms ; 
They  said  it   was   the  loveliest 

sight  — 

She  with  her  baby  in  her  arms. 
The  Earl,  one  summer  morning, 

rode 
By    the    sea-shore     where    she 

abode ; 
Again    he   came  —  that    vision 

sweet 

Drew  him  reluctant  to  her  feet. 
Fierce  must  the  struggle  in  his 

heart 
Have  been,  between  his  love  and 

pride, 
Until    be   chose    that   wondrous 

part, 

To  ask  her  to  become  his  bride. 
Yet,  ere  his  noble  name  she  bore, 
He  made  her  vow  that  nevermore 
She  would  behold  her  child  again, 


TEE  SAILOR  EOT. 


65 


But  hide  his  name  and  hers  from 

men. 
The     trembling    promise    duly 

spoken, 
All  links  of  the  low  past  were 

broken ; 

And  she  arose  to  take  her  stand 
Amid  the  nobles  of  the  land. 
Then  all  would  wonder  —  could 

it  be 

That  one  so  lowly  born  as  she, 
Kaised  to  such  height  of  bliss, 

should  seem 

Still  living  in  some  weary  dream  ? 
'T  is  true  she  bore  with  calmest 

grace 

The  honors  of  her  lofty  place, 
Yet  never  smiled,  in  peace  or  joy, 
Not  even    to  greet  her  princely 

boy. 

She  heard,  with  face  of  white  de- 
spair, 
The  cannon  thunder  through  the 

air, 
That  she  had  given  the  Earl  an 

heir. 
Nay,  even  more,  (they  whispered 

low, 

As  if  they  scarce  durst  fancy  so,) 
That,  through  her  lofty  wedded 

life, 
No  word,  no  tone,  betrayed  the 

wife. 
Her   look    seemed   ever  in   the 

past ; 
Never   to    him    it    grew   more 

sweet ; 
The  self-same  weary  glance  she 

cast 
Upon  the  greyhound  at  her  feet, 


As   upon   him,   who   bade    her 

claim 
The  crowning  honor  of  his  name. 

This   gossip,   if   old    Walter 

heard, 
He  checked   it   with  a  scornful 

word : 

I  never  durst  such  tales  repeat ; 
He  was  too  serious  and  discreet 
To  speak  of  what  his  lord  might 

do;    , 

Besides,  he  loved  my  lady  too. 
And  many  a  time,  I  recollect, 
They  were  together  in  the  wood ; 
He,   with    an   air   of  grave   re- 
spect, 
And     earnest    look,    uncovered 

stood. 
And  though  their  speech  I  never 

heard, 
(Save   now  and   then   a  louder 

word,) 

I  saw  he  spake  as  none  but  one 
She  loved  and  trusted  durst  have 

done  ; 
For  oft  I  watched  them  in  the 

shade 
That   the  close  forest   branches 

made, 
Till   slanting  golden   sunbeams 

came 
And    smote    the    fir-trees    into 

flame, 

A  radiant  glory  round  her  lit, 
Then    down    her    white    robes 

seemed  to  flit, 
Gilding  the  brown  leaves  on  the 

ground, 
And  all  the  waving  ferns  around. 


66 


THE  SAILOR  EOT. 


While  by  some  gloomy  pine  she 

leant 
And   he  in   earnest  talk  would 

stand, 

I  saw  the  tear-drops,  as  she  bent, 
Fall     on    the    flowers    in    her 

hand. — 
Strange  as  it  seemed  and  seems 

to  be, 

That  one  so  sad,  so  cold  as  she, 
Could  love  a  little  child  like  me, 
Yet  so  it  was.     I  never  heard 
Such  tender  words  as  she  would 

say, 
And    murmnrs,  sweeter  than    a 

word, 

Would  breathe  upon  me  as  I  lay. 
While  I,  in  smiling  joy,  would 

rest, 
For   hours,  my  head  upon  her 

breast. 
Our   neighbors    said    that    none 

could  see 
In    me    the    common    childish 

charms, 

(So  grave  and  still  I  used  to  be,) 
And  yet  she  held  me  in  her  arms, 
In  a  fond  clasp,  so  close,  so  tight, 
I  often  dream  of  it  at  night. 
She  bade  me  tell  her  all,  —  no 

other 
My  childish  thoughts  e'er  cared 

to  know : 

For  I  —  I  never  knew  my  moth- 
er; 

I  was  an  orphan  long  ago. 
And  I  could  all  my  fancies  pour, 
That  gentle,  loving  face  before. 
She  liked  to  hear  me  tell  her 

all; 


How  that  day  I  had  climbed  the 

tree, 
To    make   the    largest   fir-cones 

fall; 

And  how  one  day  I  hoped  to  be 
A  sailor  on  the  deep  blue  sea, — 
She  loved  to  hear  it  all ! 

Then    wondrous    things    she 

used  to  tell, 
Of  the  strange  dreams  that  she 

had  known. 
I   used   to   love   to   hear,  them 

well, 

If  only  for  her  sweet  low  tone, 
Sometimes   so   sad,  although   I 

knew    - 
That  such  things  never  could  be 

true. 

One  day  she  told  me  such  a  tale 
It  made  me  grow  all  cold  and  pale, 
The  fearful  tiling  she  told ! 
Of  a  poor  woman  mad  and  wild 
Who  coined  the  life-blood  of  her 

child, 
And,  tempted   by  a   fiend,  had 

sold 
The  heart  out  of  her  breast  for 

gold. 
But  when  she  saw  me  frightened 

seem, 
She   smiled,  and  said  it  was  a 

dream. 
When  I  look  back  and  think  of 

her, 
My  very  heart-strings    seem    to 

stir  ; 
How  kind,  how  fair  she  was,  how 

good, 
j  I  cannot  tell  you.     If  I  couhl, 


THE  SAILOR  EOT. 


67 


Yon,  too,  would  love  her.     The 

mere  thought 
Of  her   great  love  for  me    has 

brought 
Tears  in    my  eyes :  though  far 

away, 

It  seems  as  it  were  yesterday. 
And  just  as  when  I  look  on  high, 
Through  the  blue  silence  of  the 

sky, 
Fresh  stars  shine  out,  and  more 

and  more, 

Where  I  could  see  so  few  before ; 
!So,  the  more  steadily  I  gaze 
Upon  those  far-off  misty  days, 
Fresh   words,  fresh  tones,  fresh 

memories  start 

Before  my  eyes  and  in  my  heart. 
I  can  remember  how  one  day 
(Talking  in  silly  childish  way) 
I  said  how  happy  I  should  be 
If  I  were  like  her  son,  —  as  fair, 
With  just  such  bright  blue  eyes 

as  he, 
And  such  long  locks  of  golden 

hair. 
A  strange  smile  on  her  pale  face 

broke, 
And  in    strange,  solemn  words 

she  spoke : 
"  My  own,  my  darling  one,  — 

no,  no ! 

I  love  you,  far,  far  better  so. 
1  \vould  not  change  the  look  you 

bear, 
Or  one  wave  of  your  dark  brown 

hair. 
The  mere  glance  of  your  sunny 

eyes, 
Deep  in  my  deepest  soul  I  prize 


Above  that  baby  fair ! 

Not  one  of  all  the  Earl's  proud 

line 
In   beauty   ever    matched   with 

thine ; 
And,  't  is  by  thy  dark  locks  thou 

art 
Bound   even   faster   round    my 

heart, 

And  made  more  wholly  mine  !  " 
And  then  she  paused,  and  weep- 
ing said, 
"  You  are  like  one  who  now  is 

dead, — 

Who  sleeps  in  a  far-distant  grave. 
O,  may  God  grant  that  you  may 

be 

As  noble  anfl  as  good  as  he, 
As  gentle  and  as  brave  !  " 
Then  in  my  childish  way  I  cried, 
"  The  one  you  tell  meof  who  died, 
Was  he  as  noble  as  the  Earl "?  " 
I  see  her  red  lips  scornful  curl, 
I  feel  her  hold  my  hand  again, 
So    tightly,    that    I    shrink    in 

pain,  — 

I  seem  to  hear  her  say, 
"  He  whom  I  tell  you  of,  who 

died, 

He  was  so  noble  and  so  gay, 
So  generous  and  so  brave, 
That  the  proud  Earl  by  his  dear 

side 

Would  look  a  craven  slave." 
She  paused ;  then,  with  a  quiv- 
ering sigh, 
She    laid    her    hand    upon    my 

brow  : 
"  Live  like  him,  darling,  and  so 

die. 


68 


THE  SAILOR  BOY. 


Remember  that  he  tells  you  now, 

True  peace,  real  honor,  and  con- 
tent, 

In  cheerful,  pious  toil  abide ; 

That  gold  and  splendor  are  but 
sent 

To  curse  our  vanity  and  pride." 

One  day  some  childish  fever 

pain 
Burnt  in  my  veins  and  fired  my 

brain. 
Moaning,  I  turned  from  side  to 

side; 

And,  sobbing  in  my  bed,  I  cried, 
Till  night  in  calm  and  darkness 

crept 

Around  me,  and  at  last  I  slept. 
When  suddenly  I  woke  to  see 
The  Lady  bending  over  me. 
The  drops  of  cold  November  rain 
Were  falling  from  her  long,  damp 

hair  ; 
Her  anxious  eyes  were  dim  with 

pain ; 

Yet  she  looked  wondrous  fair. 
Arrayed  for  some  great  feast  she 

came, 
With  stones  that  shone  and  burnt 

like  flame; 
Wound  round  her  neck,  like  some 

bright  snake, 

And  set  like  stars  within  her  hair, 
They  sparkled  so,  they  seemed 

to  make 

A  glory  everywhere. 
I  felt  her  tears  upon  my  face, 
Her  kisses  on  my  eyes  ; 
And  a  strange  thought  I  could 

not  trace 


I  felt  within  my  heart  arise ; 
And,    half  in    feverish    pain,    I 

said : 
"  O    if    my    mother   were    not 

dead ! " 
And  Walter  bade  me  sleep  ;  but 

she 

Said,  "  Is  it  not  the  same  to  thcc 
That  /  watch  by  thy  bed  1  " 
I  answered   her,   "I  love   you, 

too; 

But  it  can  never  be  the  same ; 
She  was  no  Countess  like  to  you, 
Nor  wore  such  sparkling  stones 

of  flame." 

0  the  wild    look   of  fear   and 

dread  ! 
The  cry  she  gave  of  bitter  woe  ! 

1  often  wonder  what  I  said 

To  make  her  moan  and  shudder 
so. 

Through  the  long  night  she  tend- 
ed me 

With  such  sweet  care  and  charity. 

But  I  should  weary  you  to  tell 

All  that  I  know  and  love  so  well : 

Yet  one  night  more  stands  out 
alone 

With  a  sad  sweetness  all  its  own. 

The  wind  blew  loud  that  drea- 
ry night : 

Its  wailing  voice  I  well  remem- 
ber ; 

The  stars  shone  out  so  large  and 
bright 

Upon  the  frosty  fir-boughs  white 

That  dreary  night  of  cold  Deci'ii. 
ber. 

I  saw  old  Walter  silent  stand, 


THE  SAILOR  BOY. 


69 


Watching  the  soft,  white  flakes 

of  snow 

With  looks  I  could  not  under- 
stand, 

Of  strange  perplexity  and  woe. 
At  last  he  turned  and  took  my 

hand, 
And  said  the  Countess  ju>t  had 

sent 
To  bid  us  come ;  for  she  would 

fain 
See  me  once  more,  before  she 

went 

Away  —  never  to  come  again. 
We  came  in  silence  through  the 

wood 

(Our  footfall  was  the  only  sound) 
To  where  the  great  white  castle 

stood, 
With     darkness    shadowing    it 

around. 
Breathless,  we  trod  with  cautious 

cure 
Up   the   great   echoing   marble 

stair; 
Trembling,  bv  Walter's  hand  I 

held, 

Scared   by  the  splendors  I  be- 
held : 
Now  thinking,  "  Should  the  Karl 

appear ! " 

Now  looking  up  with  giddy  fear 
To    the  dim,  vaulted  roof  that 

spread 

Its  gloomy  arches  overhead. 
Long  corridors  we  softly  passed, 
(Mv  heart  was  beating  loud  and 

Cast,) 
And  reached  the  Lady's  room  at 

last  : 


A  strange,  faint  odor  seemed  to 
weigh 

Upon  the  dim  and  darkened  air  ; 

One  shaded  lamp,  with  softened 
ray, 

Scarce  showed  the  gloomy  splen- 
dor there. 

The  dull  red  brands  were  burn- 
ing low, 

And  yet  a  fitful  gleam  of  light 

Would  now  and  then,  with  sud- 
den glow, 

Start  forth,  then  sink  again  in 
night. 

I  gazed  around,  yet  half  in  fear, 

Till  Walter  told  me  to  draw 
near  : 

And  in  the  strange  and  flicker- 
ing light, 

Towards  the  Lady's  bed  I  crept ; 

All  folded  round  with  snowy 
white, 

She  lay  ;  (one  would  have  said 
she  slept ;) 

So  still  the  look  of  that  white  face, 

It  seemed  as  it  were  carved  in 
stone, 

I  paused  before  I  dared  to  place 

Within  her  cold  white  hand  my 
own. 

But,  with  a  smile  of  sweet  sur- 
prise, 

She  turned  to  me  her  dreamy 
eyes  ; 

And  slowly,  as  if  life  were  pain, 

She  drew -me  in  her  arms  to  lie: 

She  strove  to  speak,  and  strove 
in  vain ; 

Each  breath  was  like  a  long- 
drawn  sigh. 


70 


THE  SAILOR  BOY. 


The  throbs  that  seemed  to  shake 

her  breast, 
The   trembling   clasp,  so    loose 

and  weak, 

At  last  grew  calmer,  and  at  rest ; 
And  then  she  strove  once  more 

to  speak : 
"  My  God,  I  thank  thee,  that  my 

pain 

Of  day  by  day,  and  year  by  year, 
Has  not  been  suffered  all  in  vain, 
And  I  may  die  while  he  is  near. 
I  will  not  fear  but  that  Thy 

grace 

Has  swept  away  my  sin  and  woe, 
And  sent  this  little  angel  face, 
In  my  last  hour,  to  tell  me  so." 
(And  here  her  voice  grew  faint 

and  low,) 
"  My  child,  where'er  thy  life  may 

go, 
To  know  that  thou  art  brave  and 

true, 
Will  pierce  the  highest  heavens 

through, 

And  even  there  my  soul  shall  be 
More  joyful  for  this  thought  of 

thee." 
She  folded  her  white  hands,  and 

stayed ; 

All  cold  and  silently  she  lay : 
I   knelt    beside    the    bed,    and 

prayed 
The  prayer  she  used  to  make 

me  say. 

I  said  it  many  times,  and  then 
She  did  not  move,  but  seemed 

to  be 

In  a  deep  sleep,  nor  stirred  again. 
No  sound  woke  in  thesilcnt  room, 


Or  broke  the  dim  and  solemn 

gloom, 
Save  when  the  brands  that  burnt  } 

so  low, 

With  noisy,  fitful  gleam  of  light, 
Would  spread  around  a  sudden 

glow, 
Then   sink   in    silence    and    in 

night. 

How  long  I  stood  I  do  not  know  : 
At  last  poor  Walter  came,  and 

said 
(So  sadly)   that  we  now  must 

go,  * 

And    whispered,    she   we  loved 

was  dead. 
He  bade  me  kiss  her  face  once 

more, 

Then  led  me  sobbing  to  the  door. 
I    scarcely    knew    what    dying 

meant, 

Yet  a  strange  grief,  before  un- 
known, 
Weighed   on   my  spirit   as   we 

went 
And  left  her  lying  all  alone. 

We  went  to  the  far  North  once 

more, 
To   seek  the  well  -  remembered 

home 
Where  my  poor  kinsman  dwelt 

before, 
Whence  now  he  was  too  old  to 

roam ; 
And  there  six  happy  years  we 

past, 

Happy  and  peaceful  till  the  last ; 
When  poor  old  Walter  died,  and 

he 


THE  LESS  OX   OF   THE    WAR. 


71 


Blessed  me  and  said  I  now  might 

be 

A  sailor  on  the  deep  blue  sea. 
And  so  I  go  ;  and  yet  in  spite 
Of  all  the  joys  I  long  to  know, 
Though  I  look  onward  with  de- 

light, 

With  something  of  regret  I  go ; 
And  young  or  old,  on  land  or 

sea, 
One   guiding   memory   I    shall 

take,  — 
Of  what  She  prayed  that  I  might 

be, 
And   what   I   will    be   for   her 

sake! 


A  CROWN   OF   SORROW. 

A  SORROW,  wet  with  early  tears 
Yet  bitter,  had  been  long  with 

me; 

I  wearied  of  this  weight  of  years, 
And  would  be  free. 

I  tore  my  Sorrow  from  my  heart, 

I  cast  it  far  away  in  scorn  ; 
Right  joyful  that  we  two  could 
part, 

Yet  most  forlorn. 

I  sought  (to  take  my  Sorrow's 

place) 
Over  the  world  for  flower  or 

gem; 

But  she  had  had  an  ancient  grace 
Unknown  to  them. 


I  took  once  more  with  strange 

delight 
My  slighted  Sorrow ;  proudly 

no%v 

I  wear  it,  set  with  stars  of  light, 
Upon  my  brow. 


THE     LESSON     OF     THE 
WAR, 

1855. 

THE    feast   is    spread   through 

England 

For  rich  and  poor  to-day ; 
Greetings  and  laughter  may  be 

there, 

But  thoughts  are  far  away ; 
Over  the  stormy  ocean, 

Over  the  dreary  track, 
Where   some   are   gone,   whom 

England 
Will  never  welcome  back. 

Breathless  she  waits,  and  listens 

For  every  eastern  breeze 
That  bears  upon  its  bloody  wings 

News  from  beyond  the  seas. 
The  leafless  branches  stirring 

Make  many  a  watcher  start ; 
The  distant  tramp  of  steed  may 
send 

A  throb  from  heart  to  heart. 

The  rulers  of  the  nation, 
The  poor  ones  at  their  gate, 

With  the  same  eager  wonder 
The  same  great  news  await. 

The  poor  man's  stay  and  comfort, 
The  rich  man's  joy  and  pride, 


72 


THE  TWO  SPIRITS. 


Upon  the  bleak  Crimean  shore 
Are  fighting  side  by  side. 

The  bullet  comes  —  and  either 

A  desolate  hearth  may  see ; 
And  God  alone  to-night  knows 
where 

The  vacant  place  may  be ! 
The  dread  that  stirs  the  peasant 

Thrills    nobles'   hearts    with 

fear ; 
Yet  above  selfish  sorrow 

Both  hold  their  country  dear. 

The  rich  man  who  reposes 

In  his  ancestral  shade, 
The  peasant  at  his  ploughshare, 

The  worker  at  his  trade, 
Each  one  his  all  has  perilled, 

Each  has  the  same  great  stake, 
Each  soul  can  but  have  patience, 

Each  heart  can  only  break ! 

Hushed  is  all  party  clamor ; 

One  thought  in  every  heart, 
One  dread  in  every  household, 

Has  bid  such  strife  depart. 
England  has  called  her  children  ; 

Long  silent  —  the  word  came 
That  lit  the  smouldering  ashes 

Through  all  the  land  to  flame. 

O  you  who  toil  and  suffer, 

You  gladly  heard  the  call ; 
But  those  you  sometimes  envy, 

Have  they  not  given  their  all  1 
O  you  who  rule  the  nation, 

Take  now  the  toil-worn  hand  : 
Brothers  you  are  in  sorrow, 

In  duty  to  your  land. 


Learn  but  this  noble  lesson 
Ere  Peace  returns  again, 

And  the  life-blood  of  Old  Eng- 
land 
Will  not  be  shed  in  vain. 


THE   TWO    SPIRITS. 
1855. 

LAST  night,  when  weary  silence 

fell  on  all, 
And  starless  skies  arose  so  dim 

and  vast, 
I  heard  the  Spirit  of  the  Present 

call 
Upon   the  sleeping  Spirit  of 

the  Past. 
Far   off  and  near,  I  saw  their 

radiance  shine, 
And  listened  while  they  spoke 

of  deeds  divine. 

The  Spirit  of  the  Past. 
My  deeds  are  writ  in  iron ; 

My  glory  stands  alone ; 
A  veil  of  shadowy  honor 

Upon  my  tombs  is  thrown  ; 
The  great  names  of  my  heroes 

Like  gems  in  history  lie; 
To  live  they  deemed  ignoble, 

Had  they  the  chance  to  die ! 

The  Spirit  of  the  Present. 
My  children,  too,  are  honored ; 
Dear  shall  their  memory  be 
To   the  proud   lands  that  own 

them  ; 
Dearer  than  thine  to  thee ; 


THE   TWO  SPIRITS. 


73 


For,  though  they  hold  that  sa- 
cred 

Is  God's  great  gift  of  life, 
At  the  first  call  of  duty 

They  rush  into  the  strife  ! 

The  Spirt  of  the  Past  ! 

Then,  with  all  valiant  precepts 

Woman's     soft     heart      was 

fraught ; 
"  Death,  not  dishonor,"  echoed 

The  war-cry  she  had  taught. 
Fearless  and  glad,  those  mothers, 

At  bloody  deaths  elate, 
Cried  out  they  bore  their  chil- 
dren 

Only  for  such  a  fate  ! 

The  Spirit  of  the  Present. 

Though  such  stem  laws  of  honor 

Are  faded  now  away, 
Yet  many  a  mourning  mother, 

With  nobler  grief  than  they, 
Bows  down  in  sad  submission  : 

The  heroes  of  the  fight 
Learnt  at  her  knee  the  lesson, 

"  For  God  and  for  the  Right!  " 

The  Spirit  of  the  Past. 

No  voice  there  spake  of  sbrrow  : 

They  saw  the  noblest  fall 
With  no  repining  murmur ; 

Stern  Fate  was  lord  of  all. 
And  when   the  loved  ones  per- 
ished, 

One  cry  alone  arose, 
Waking  the  startled  echoes, 

"  Vengeance  upon  our  foes  !  " 


The  Spirit  of  the  Present. 

Grief  dwells  in  France  and  Eng- 
land 

For  many  a  noble  son ; 
Yet  louder  than  the  sorrow, 

"  Thy  will,  O  God,  be  done  !  " 
From  desolate  homes  is  rising 

One  prayer,  —  "  Let  carnage 

cease! 
On  friends  and  foes  have  mercy, 

O  Lord,  and  give  us  peace !  " 

The  Spirit  of  the  Past. 

Then,  every  hearth  was  honored 

That  sent  its  children  forth, 
To  spread  their  country's  glory, 

And  gain  her  south  or  north. 
Then,  little  recked  they  numbers, 

No  band  would  ever  fly, 
But  stern  and  resolute  they  stood 

To  conquer  or  to  die. 

The  Spirit  of  the  Present. 

And  now  from  France  and  Eng- 
land 

Their  dearest  and  their  best 
Go  forth  to  succor  freedom, 

To  help  the  much  oppressed ; 
Now,  let  the  far-off  Future 

And  Past  bow  down  to-day, 
Before  the  few  young  hearts  that 
hold 

Whole  armaments  at  bay. 

The  Spirit  of  the  Past. 

Then,  each  one  strove  for  honor. 
Each  for  a  deathless  name ; 


74 


A  LITTLE  LONGER. 


Love,    home,    rest,    joy,    were 

offered 

As  sacrifice  to  Fame. 
They  longed  that  in  far  ages 
Their    deeds    might    still    be 

told, 

And  distant  times  and  nations 
Their  names  in  honor  hold. 

The  Spirit  of  the  Present. 

Though    nursed    by    such    old 

legends, 

Our  heroes  of  to-day 
Go  cheerfully  to  battle 

As  children  go  to  play ; 
They  gaze  with  awe  and  won- 
der 

On  your  great  names  of  pride, 
Unconscious  that  their  own  will 

shine 
In  glory  side  by  side  ! 

Day  dawned  ;  and  as  the  Spirits 

passed  away, 
Methought   I   saw,  in   the  dim 

morning  gray, 
The  Past's   bright  diadem   had 

paled  before 
The  starry  crown   the  glorious 

Present  wore. 


A   LITLLE   LONGER. 

A  LITTLE  longer  yet  —  a  little 

longer, 
Shall  violets  bloom  for  thce,  and 

sweet  birds  sing ; 


And  the  lime-branches,  where 
soft  winds  are  blowing, 

Shall  murmur  the  sweet  promise 
of  the  Spring ! 

A  little  longer  yet  —  a  little 
longer, 

Thou  shall  behold  the  quiet  of 
the  morn ; 

While  tender  grasses  and  awak- 
ening flowers 

Send  up  a  golden  mist  to  greet 
the  dawn  ! 

A  little  longer  yet  —  a  little 
longer, 

The  tenderness  of  twilight  shall 
be  thine, 

The  rosy  clouds  that  float  o'er 
dying  daylight, 

Nor  fade  till  trembling  stars  be- 
gin to  shine. 

A   little    longer    yet  —  a    little 

longer, 
Shall  starry  night   be  beautiful 

for  thec  ; 
And  the  cold  moon  shall  look 

through  the  blue  silence, 
Flooding  her  silver  path  upon  the 


A    little    longer  yet  —  a  little 

longer, 
Life  shall  be  thine ;  life  with  its 

power  to  will ; 
Life  with  its  strength  to  bear,  to 

love,  to  conquer, 
Bringing  its   thousand  joys  thy 

heart  to  fill. 


GRIEF. 


75 


A   little    longer    yet  —  a    little 

longer, 
The  voices  thou  hast  loved  shall 

charm  thine  ear ; 
And   thy    true    heart,  that    now 

heats  quick  to  hear  them, 
A  little  longer  yet  shall  hold  them 

dear. 

A  little  longer  yet — joy  while 

thou  mayest ; 
Love  and  rejoice !  for  time  has 

naught  in  store  : 
And   soon    the  darkness  of  the 

grave  shall  bid  thee 
Love  and  rejoice  and  feel   and 

know  no  more. 


A  little  longer  still  —  Patience, 

Bclove'd  : 
A  little  longer  still,  ere  Heaven 

unroll 
The  Glory,  and  the  Brightness, 

and  the  Wonder, 
Eternal,   and  divine,  that  waits 

thy  Soul ! 

A  little  longer  ere  Life  true,  im- 
mortal, 

(Not  this  our  shadowy  Life,)  will 
be  thine  own ; 

And  thou  shall  stand  where 
winged  Archangels  worship, 

And  trembling  bow  before  the 
Great  White  Throne. 

A  little  longer  still,  and  Heaven 

awaits  thee, 
And  rills  thy  spirit  with  a  great 

delight ; 


Then  our  pale  joys  will  seem  a 

dream  forgotten, 
Our   Sun  a    darkness,   and  our 

Day  a  Night. 

A  little  longer,  and  thy  Heart, 

Belove'd, 
Shall   beat  forever  with  a  Love 

divine ; 
And  joy  so  pure,  so  mighty,  so 

eternal, 
No  creature  knows  and  lives,  will 

then  be  thine. 

A  little  longer  yet — and  angel 

voices 
Shall   ring   in    heavenly   chant 

upon  thine  ear ; 
Angels  and  Saints    await   thee, 

and  God  needs  thee  : 
Belove'd,  can  we  bid  thee  linger 

here  ! 


GRIEF. 

AN  ancient  enemy  have  I, 
And  either  he  or  I  must  die ; 
For  he  never  leaveth  me, 
Never  gives  my  soul  relief, 
Never  lets  my  sorrow  cease, 
Never  gives  my  spirit  peace,  — 
For  mine  enemy  is  Grief ! 
Pale  he  is,  and  sad  and  stern  ; 
And  whene'er  he  comcth  nigh, 
Blue  and  dim  the  torches  burn, 
Pale  and  shrunk  the  roses  turn  ; 
While  my  heart  that  he  has  pierced 
Many  a  time  with  fiery  lance, 
Beats  and  trembles  at  his  glance  : 


GRIEF. 


Clad  in  burning  steel  is  he, 
All  my  strength  he  can  defy ; 
For  he  never  leaveth  me  — 
And  one  of  us  must  die  ! 

I  have  said,  "  Let  ancient  sages 
Charm  me  from  my  thoughts  of 

pain  !  " 

So  I  read  their  deepest  pages, 
And  I  strove  to  think  —  in  vain  ! 
Wisdom's    cold,    calm    words    I 

tried, 

But  he  was  seated  by  my  side  ;  — 
Learning  I  have  won  in  vain  ; 
She  cannot  rid  me  of  my  pain. 

When  at  last  soft  sleep  comes 

o'er  me, 

A  cold  hand  is  on  my  heart ; 
Stern  sad  eyes  are  there  before 

me ; 

Not  in  dreams  will  he  depart : 
And  when  the  same  dreary  vision 
From  my  weary  'brain  has  fled, 
Daylight  brings  the  living  phan- 
tom, 

lie  is  seated  by  my  bed, 
Bending  o'er  me  all  the  while, 
With  his  cruel,  bitter  smile, 
Ever  with  me,  ever  nigh  ;  — 
And  either  he  or  I  must  die  ! 

Then  I  said,  long  time  ago, 
"  I  will  flee  to  other  climes, 
I  will  leave  mine  ancient  foe  !  " 
Though    I    wandered    far    and 

wide  — 
Still  he  followed  at  my  side. 

And  I  fled  where  the  blue  waters 
Bathe  the  sunny  isles  of  Greece ; 


Where  Thessalian  mountains  rise 
Up  against  the  purple  skies  ; 
Where  a  haunting  memory  liv- 

eth 

In  each  wood  and  cave  and  rill ; 
But  no  dream  of  gods  could  help 

me,  — 
He  went  with  me  still ! 

I  have  been  where  Nile's  broad 

river 

Flows  upon  the  burning  sand  ; 
Where  the  desert  monster  brood- 

eth, 
Where   the    Eastern   palm-trees 

stand  ; 

I  have  been  where  pathless  forests 
Spread  a  black  eternal  shade  ; 
Where  the  larking  panther  hiding 
Glares  from  every  tangled  glade  ; 
But  in  vain  I  wandered  wide, 
lie  was  always  by  my  side  ! 

Then  I  fled  where  snows  eternal 
Cold  and  dreary  ever  lie  ; 
Where  the  rosy  lightnings  gleam, 
Flashing  through  the    northern 

sky ; 

Where  the  red  sun  turns  again 
Back  upon  his  path  of  pain  ;  — 
But  a  shadowy  form  was  with 

me,  — 
I  had  fled  in  vain ! 

I  have  thought,  "  If  I  can  gaze 
Sternly  on  him  he  will  fade, 
For  I  know  that  he  is  nothing 
But  a  dim  ideal  shade." 
As  I  gazed  at  him  the  more, 
He  grew  stronger  than  before  ! 


THE   TRIUMPH  OF   TIME. 


77 


Then  I  said,  "  Mine  arm  is  strong, 
I  will  make  him  turn  and  flee  "  ; 
I  have  struggled  with  him  long  — 
But  that  could  never  be  ! 

Once  I  battled  with  him  so 
That  I  thought  I  laid  him  low ; 
Then  in  trembling  joy  I  fled, 
While  again  and  still  again 
Murmuring  to  myself  I  said, 
"  Mine  old  enemy  is  dead !  " 
And  I  stood  beneath  the  stars, 
When  a  chill  came  on  my  frame, 
And  a  fear  I  could  not  name, 
And  a  sense  of  quick  despair, 
And,    lo  !  —  mine   enemy   was 
there ! 

Listen,  for  my  soul  is  weary, 
Weary  of  its  endless  woe ; 
I  have  called  on  one  to  aid  me 
Mightier  even  than  my  foe. 
Strength  and  hope  fail  clay  by 

day ; 

I  shall  cheat  him  of  his  prey ; 
Some  day  soon,  I  know  not  when, 
lie   will   stab    me  through   and 

through ; 

He  has  wounded  me  before, 
But    my    heart    can    bear    no 

more ; 
Pray  that   hour   may  come   to 

me, 

Only  then  shall  I  be  free  ; 
Death  alone  has  strength  to  take 

me 

Where  my  foe  can  never  be  ; 
Death,    and    Death    alone,    has 

power 
To  conquer  mine  old  enemy  ! 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  TIME. 

THE  tender,  delicate  Flow- 
ers, 
I  saw  them  fanned  by  a  warm 

western  wind, 
Fed  by  soft  summer  show- 
ers, 
Shielded  by  care,  and  yet,   (O 

Fate  unkind !) 
Fade  in  a  few  short  hours. 

The  gentle  and  the  gay, 
Rich  in  a  glorious   Future  of 

bright  deeds, 
Rejoicing  in  the  day, 
Are  met  by  Death,  who  sternly, 

sadly  leads 
Them  far  away. 

And  Hopes,  perfumed  and 

bright, 
So  lately  shining,  wet  with  dew 

and  tears, 

Trembling  in  morning  light ; 
I  saw  them  change  to  dark  and 

anxious  fears 
Before  the  night ! 

I  wept  that  all  must  die: 
"  Yet  Love,"  I  cried,  "  doth  live, 
and  conquer  death  —  " 
And  time  passed  by, 
And    breathed    on    Love,    and 
killed  it  with  his  bread 
Ere  Death  was  nigh. 

More  bitter  far  than  all 
It  was  to  know  that  Love  couk? 
change  and  die  !  — 


78 


A  PARTING. 


Hush  !  for  the  ages  call, 
"  The  Love  of  God  lives  through 

eternity, 
And  conquers  all ! " 


A  PARTING. 

WITHOUT  one  bitter  feeling  let 

us  part,  — 
And    for  the  years  in  which 

your  love  has  shed 
A  radiance  like  a  glory  round 

my  head, 

I  thank  you,  yes,  I  thank  you 
from  my  heart. 

I  thank  you  for  the  cherished 

hope  of  years, 
A  starry  future,  dim  and  yet 

divine, 
Winging  its  way  from  Heaven 

to  be  mine, 

Laden  with  joy,  and  ignorant  of 
tears. 

I  thank  you,  yes,  I  thank  you 

even  more 

That  my  heart  learnt  not  with- 
out love  to  live, 
But  gave  and  gave,  and  still 

had  more  to  give, 
From  an  abundant  and  exhaust- 
less  store. 

I  thank  you,  and  no  grief  is  in 

these  tears ; 

I  thank  you,  not  in  bitterness 
but  truth, 


For  the  fair  vision  that  adorned 

my  youth 

And   glorified  so   many   happy 
years. 

Yet  how  much  more  I  thank  you 

that  you  tore 
At  length  the  veil  your  hand 

had  woven  away, 
•     Whicli  hid  my  idol  was  a  thing 

of  clay, 
And  false  the  altar  I  had  knelt 

before. 

I  thank  you  that  you  taught  me 

the  stern  truth, 
(None  other  could  have  told 

and  I  believed,) 
That  vain  had  been  my  life. 

and  I  deceived, 

And  wasted  all  the  purpose  of 
my  youth. 

I   thank   you   that   your   hand 

dashed  down  the  shrine, 
Wherein  my   idol  worship  I 

had  paid ; 
Else  had  I  never  known  a  soul 

was  made 

To  serve  and  worship  only  the 
Divine. 

I  thank  you  that  the  heart  I  cast 

away 

On  such  as  you,  though  bro 
ken,  bruised,  and  cru.-hed. 
Now  that  its  fiery  throbbing  it 

all  hushed, 
Upon  a  worthier  altar  I  can  lay 


TEE  GOLDEN  GATE. 


79 


I  thank  yon  for  the  lesson  that 

such  love 
Is  a  perverting  of  God's  royal 

right, 
That  it  is  made  but  for  the 

Infinite, 

And  all  too  great  to  live  except 
above. 

I  thank  you  for  a  terrible  awak- 
ing, 

And  if  reproach  seemed  hidden 
in  my  pain, 


And  sorrow  seemed  to  cry  on 

your  disdain, 

Know  that  my  blessing  lay  in 
your  forsaking. 

Farewell  forever  now :  in  peace 

we  part ; 
And  should  an  idle  vision  o  ' 

my  tears 
Arise  before  your  soul  in  afte\ 

years, 

Remember  that  I  thank  you  from 
my  heart ! 


THE   GOLDEN   GATE. 

DIM  shadows  gather  thickly  round,  and  up  the  misty  stair  they  climb, 
The  cloudy  stair  that  upward  leads  to  where  the  closed  portals  shine, 
Bound  which  the  kneeling  spirits  wait  the  opening  of  the  Golden  Gate. 

And  some  with  eager  longing  go,  still  pressing  forward,  hand  in  hand, 
And  some,  with  weary  step  and  slow,  look  back  where  their  Belove'd 

stand  : 
Yet  up  the  misty  stair  they  climb,  led  onward  by  the  Angel  Time. 

As  unseen  hands  roll  back  the  doors,  the  light  that  floods  the  very  air 
Is  but  the  shadow  from  within,  of  the  great  glory  hidden  there : 
And  morn  and  eve,  and  soon  and  late,  the  shadows  pass  within  the  gate. 

As  one  by  one  they  enter  in,  and  the  stern  portals  close  once  more, 
The  halo  seems  to  linger  round  those  kneeling  closest  to  the  door : 
The  joy  that  lightened  from  that  place  shines  still  upon  the  watcher's 
face. 

The  faint  low  echo  that  we  hear  of  far-off  music  seems  to  fill 

The  silent  air  with  love  and  fear,  and  the  world's  clamors  all  grow  still, 

Until  the  portals  close  again,  and  leave  us  toiling  on  in  pain. 

Complain  not  that  the  way  is  long :  what  road  is  weary  that  leads  there? 
But  let  the  Angel  take  thy  hand,  and  lead  thee  up  the  misty  stair, 
And  then  with  beating  heart  await  the  opening  of  the  Golden  Gate. 


80 


THANKFULNESS. 


PHANTOMS. 

BACK,  ye  Phantoms  of  the  Past ; 

In  your  dreary  caves  remain  : 
What  have  I  to  do  with  memories 

Of  a  long-forgotten  pain  ? 

For  my  Present  is  all  peaceful, 
And  my  Future  nobly  planned : 

Long  ago  Time's  mighty  billows 
Swept  your  footsteps  from  the 
sand. 

Back  into  your  caves  ;  nor  haunt 
me 

With  your  voices  full  of  woe  ; 
I  have  buried  grief  and  sorrow 

In  the  depths  of  Long-ago. 

See  the  glorious  clouds  of  morn- 
ing 
Roll    away,    and   clear    and 

bright 
Shine  the  rays  of  cloudless  day. 

light :  — 

Wherefore  will    ye  moan   of 
night? 

Never  shall  my  heart   be  bur- 
dened 
With    its    ancient   woe    and 

fears ; 

I  can  drive  them  from  my  pres- 
ence, 

I    can    check    these     foolish 
tears. 

Back,  ye  Phantoms ;    leave,  O 

leave  me, 
To  a  new  and  happy  lot ; 


Speak   no    more   of  things  de- 
parted ; 

Leave    me  —  for  I  know  ye 
not. 

Can  it  be  that  'mid  my  gladness 

I  must  ever  hear  you  wail, 
Of   the    grief  that    wrung   my 

spirit, 

And  that  made  my  cheek  so 
pale? 

Joy    is    mine ;    but    your    sad 
voices 

Murmur  ever  in  mine  ear : 
Vain  is  all  the  Future's  promise, 

While  the  dreary  Past  is  here. 

Vain,   O  worse  than  vain,  the 

Visions 
That  my  heart,  my  life,  would 

fill, 

If  the  Past's  relentless  phantoms 
Call  upon  me  still ! 


THANKFULNESS. 

MY  God,  I  thank  Thee  who  hast 
made 

The  Earth  so  bright ; 
So  full  of  splendor  and  of  joy, 

Beauty  and  light; 
So  many  glorious  things  are  here, 

Noble  and  right ! 

I  thank  Thee,  too,  that  Thou 

hast  made 
Joy  to  abound ; 


HOME-SICKNESS. 


81 


So   many  gentle   thoughts  and 
deeds 

Circling  us  round, 
That  in  the  darkest  spot  of  Earth 

Some  love  is  found. 

I  thank  Thee  more  that  all  our  joy 

Is  touched  with  pain  ; 
That  shadows  fall  on  brightest 

hours ; 

That  thorns  remain ; 
So  that  Earth's  bliss  may  be  our 

guide, 
And  not  our  chain. 

For  Thou  who  knowest,  Lord, 

how  soon 

Our  weak  heart  clings, 
Hast  given  us  joys,  tender  and 

true, 

Yet  all  with  wings, 
So  that  we  see,  gleaming  on  high, 
Diviner  things ! 

I  thank  Thee,  Lord,  that  Thou 

hast  kept 

The  best  in  store  ; 
We  have  enough,  yet  not  too 

much 

To  long  for  more : 
A  yearning  for  a  deeper  peace, 
Not  known  before. 

I  thank   Thee,  Lord,  that  here 

our  souls, 

Though  amply  blest, 
Can  never  find,  although  they 

seek, 

A  perfect  rest,  — 
Nor  ever  shall,  until  they  lean 
On  Jesus'  breast ! 


HOME-SICKNESS. 

WHERE    I   am,    the    halls   are 

gilded, 
Stored   with   pictures    bright 

and  rare ; 

Strains  of  deep  melodious  music 
Float     upon     the     perfumed 

air :  — 
Nothing  stirs  the  dreary  silence 

Save  the  melancholy  sea, 
Near  the  poor  and  humble  cot- 
tage, 
Where  I  fain  would  be  ! 


Where  I  am,  the  sun  is  shining, 
And  the  purple  windows  glow, 
Till  their  rich  armorial  shadows 
Stain    the   marble    floor    be- 
low :  — 

Faded  autumn  leaves  are  trem- 
bling 

On  the  withered  jasmine-tree, 
Creeping  round  the  little  case- 
ment, 
Where  I  fain  would  be ! 

Where  I  am,  the  days  are  passing 
O'er  a  pathway  strewn  with 

flowers ; 

Song  and  joyand  starry  pleasures 
Crown    the    happy,    smiling 

hours  :  — 

Slowly,  heavily,  and  sadly, 
Time  with  weary  wings  must 

flee, 
Marked  by  pain,  and  toil,  and 

sorrow, 
Where  I  fain  would  be ! 


WISHES. 


Where  I  am,  the  great  and  noble 

Tell  me  of  renown  and  fame, 
And  the  red  wine  sparkles  highest, 

To  do  honor  to  my  name  :  — 
Par  away  a  place  is  vacant, 

By  a  humble  hearth,  for  me, 
Dying  embers  dimly  show  it, 

Where  I  fain  would  be  ! 

Where  I  am  are  glorious  dream- 
ings, 

Science,  genius,  art  divine ; 
And  the  great  minds  whom  all 

honor 
Interchange     their    thoughts 

with  mine :  — 
A  few  simple  hearts  are  waiting, 

Longing,  wearying,  for  me, 
Far  away  where  tears  are  falling, 
Where  I  fain  would  be ! 

Where  I  am,  all  think  me  happy, 

For  so  well  I  play  my  part, 
None    can    gness,    who    smile 
around  me, 

How  far  distant  is  my  heart,  — 
Far  away,  in  a  poor  cottage, 

Listening  to  the  dreary  sea, 
Where  the  treasures  of  my  life 
are, 

Where  I  fain  would  be  ! 


WISHES. 

ALL  the  fluttering  wishes 
Caged  within  thy  heart 

Beat  their  wings  against  it, 
Longing  to  depart, 


Till  they  shake  their  prison 
With  their  wounded  cry ; 

Open  wide  thy  heart  to-day, 
And  let  the  captives  fly. 

Let  them  first  fly  upward 

Through  the  starry  air, 
Till  you  almost  lose  them, 

For  their  home  is  there ; 
Then,  with  outspread  pinions, 

Circling  round  and  round, 
Wing  their  way  wherever 

Want  and  woe  are  found. 

Where  the  weary  stitcher 

Toils  for  daily  bread ; 
Where  the  lonely  watcher 

Watches  by  her  dead  ; 
Where,  with  thin,  weak  fingers, 

Toiling  at  the  loom, 
Stand  the  little  children, 

Blighted  ere  they  bloom  ;  — 

Where,  by  darkness  blinded, 

Groping  for  the  light, 
With  distorted  conscience, 

Men  do  wrong  for  right ; 
Where,  in  the  cold  shadow, 

By  smooth  pleasure  thrown, 
Human  hearts  by  hundreds 

Harden  into  stone ;  — 

Where  on  dusty  highways, 

With  faint  heart  and  slow, 
Cursing  the  glad  sunlight, 

Hungry  outcasts  go; 
Where  all  mirth  is  silenced, 

And  the  hearth  is  chill, 
For  one  place  is  empty, 

And  one  voice  is  still. 


LIFE  IN  DEATH  AND  DEATH  IN  LIFE. 


83 


Some  hearts  will  be  lighter 

While  your  captives  roam 
For  their  tender  singing, 

Then  recall  them  home  ; 
When  the  sunny  hours 

Into  night  depart, 
Softly  they  will  nestle 

In  a  quiet  heart. 


THE   PEACE   OF   GOD. 

WE  ask  for  Peace,  0  Lord  ! 

Thy  children  ask  Thy  Peace ; 
Not  what  the  world  calls  rest, 

That  toil  and  care  should  cease, 
That  through  bright  sunny  hours 

Calm  Life  should  fleet  away, 
And  tranquil  night  should  fade 

In  smiling  day  ;  — 
It  is  not  for  such  Peace  that  we 
would  pray. 

We  ask  for  Peace,  O  Lord  ! 

Yet  riot  to  stand  secure, 
Girt  round  with  iron  Pride, 

Contented  to  endure : 
Crushing  the  gentle  strings 
That    human    hearts    should 

know, 
Untouched  by  others'  joy 

Or  others'  woe ;  — 
Thou,  O  dear  Lord,  wilt  never 
teach  us  so. 

We  ask  Thy  Peace,  O  Lord  ! 
Through  storm,  and  fear,  and 

strife, 
To  light  and  guide  us  on, 

Through    a   long,   struggling 
life: 


While  no  success  or  gain 

Shall  cheer  the  desperate  fight, 
Or  nerve,  what  the  world  calls, 

Our  wasted  might :  — 
Yet  pressing  through  the  dark- 
ness to  the  light. 

It  is  Thine  own,  O  Lord, 
Who  toil  while  others  sleep; 

Who  sow  with  loving  care 
What  other  hands  shall  reap : 

They  lean  on  Thee  entranced, 
In  calm  and  perfect  rest : 

Give  us  that  Peace,  O  Lord, 
Divine  and  blest, 

Thou  keepest  for  those   hearts 
who  love  Thee  best. 


LIFE      IN     DEATH     AND 
DEATH   IN  LIFE. 


IF  the  dread  day  that  calls  thee 

hence 
Through  a  red  mist  of  fear 

should  loom, 
(Closing  in  deadliest  night  and 

gloom 

Long  hours  of  aching,  dumb  sus- 
pense,) 

And  leave  me  to  my  lonely 
doom,  — 

I  think,  belove'd,  I  could  see 
In  thy  dear  eyes   the  loving 

light 
Glaze  into  vacancy  and  night, 


84 


LIFE  IN  DEATH  AND  DEATH  IN  LIFE. 


And  still  say,  "  God  is  good  to 

me, 

And  all  that  He   decrees    is 
right." 

That,  watching  thy  slow  strug- 
gling breath, 
And  answering  each  imperfect 

sign, 
I  still  could  pray  thy  prayer 

and  mine, 
And  tell  thee,  dear,  though  this 

was  death, 

That  God  was  love,  and  love 
divine. 

Could   hold   thee  in  my  arms, 

and  lay 
Upon    my   heart   thy   weary 

head, 
And  meet  thy  last  smile  ere  it 

fled; 

Then  hear,  as  in  a  dream,  one  say, 
"  Now   all   is   over,  —  she  is 
dead." 

Could  smooth  thy  garments  with 

fond  care, 
And  cross  thy  hands  upon  thy 

breast, 
And  kiss  thine  eyelids  down 

to  rest, 

And  yet  say  no  word  of  despair, 
But,  through  my  sobbing,  "  It 
is  best." 

Could  stifle  down  the  gnawing 

pain, 

And  say,  "  We  still  divide  our 
life, 


She  has  the  rest,  and  I  the 

strife, 
And  mine  the  loss,  and  hers  the 

gain  : 

My  ill  with   bliss   for  her  is 
rife." 

Then  turn,  and  the  old  duties 

take  — 
Alone  now  —  yet  with  earnest 

will 
Gathering  sweet,  sacred  traces 

still 

To  help  me  on,  and,  for  thy  sake, 
My  heart  and  life  and  soul  to 
fill. 

I  think  I  could  check  vain,  weak 

tears, 
And     toil,  —  although      the 

world's  great  space 
Held  nothing  but  one  vacant 

place, 
And  see  the  dark    and  weary 

years 
Lit  only  by  a  vanished  grace. 

And  sometimes,  when  the  day 

was  o'er, 
Call     up    the     tender     past 

again : 

Its  painful  joy,  its  happy  pain, 
And  live  it  over  yet  once  more, 
And    say,   "But    few    more 
years  remain." 

And  then,  when  I  had  striven 

my  best, 

And  all  around  would  smiling 
say, 


LIFE  IN  DEATH  AND  DEATH  IN  LIFE. 


85 


"  See    how  Time    makes  all 

grief  decay," 
Would  lie  down   thankfully  to 

rest, 
And  seek  thee  in  eternal  day. 


But    if   the    day    should    ever 

rise  — 
It  could  not  and   it   cannot 

be  — 

Yet,  if  the  sun  should  ever  see, 

Looking  upon  us  from  his  skies, 

A  day  that  took  thy  heart  from 


If  loving    thee   still   more    and 

more, 

And  still  so  willing  to  be  blind, 
I  should  the  bitter  knowledge 

find, 

That  Time  had  eaten  out  the  core 
Of  love,  and  left  the    empty 
rind ; 

If  the  poor  lifeless  words,  at  last, 
(The  soul  gone,  that  was  once 

so  sweet,) 
Should  cease  my  eager  heart 

to  cheat, 

And  crumble  back  into  the  past, 
And  show  the   whole  a  vain 
deceit ; 

If  I  should  see  thee  turn  away, 
And  know    that  prayer,  and 

time,  and  pain, 
Could  no  more  thy  lost  love 
regain, 


Than  bid  the  hours  of  dying  day 
Gleam  in  their  mid-day  noon 
again ; 

If  I  should  loose  thy  hand,  and 

know 
That     henceforth     we    must 

dwell  apart, 

Since  I  had  seen  thy  love  de- 
part, 

And  only  count  the  hours  flow 
By  the  dull  throbbing  of  my 
heart ; 

If  I  should  gaze  and  gaze  in  vain 
Into    thine  eyes  so  deep  and 

clear, 
And  read  the  truth  of  all  my 

fear 
Half  mixed   with   pity  for  my 

pain, 

And  sorrow  for  the  vanished 
year; 

If,  not  to  grieve  thee  overmuch, 
I  strove  to  counterfeit  disdain, 
And  weave  me  a  new  life  again, 
Which  thy  life  could  not  mar,  or 

touch, 

And  so  smile  down  my  bitter 
pain ;  — 

The  ghost  of  my  dead  Past  would 

rise 
And  mock   me,  and  I  could 

not  dare 

Look  to  a  future  of  despair, 
Or  even  to  the  eternal  skies, 
For  I   should   still  be  lonely 
there. 


86 


RECOLLECTIONS. 


All  Truth,  all  Honor,  then  would 

seem 
Vain  clouds,  which  the   first 

wind  blew  by ; 
All  Trust,  a  folly  doomed  to 

die; 

All  Life,  a  useless,  empty  dream ; 
All   Love  —  since   thine   had 
failed  —  a  lie. 

But  see,  thy  tender  smile  has  cast 
My  fear  away  :  this  thought  of 

mine 
Is   treason  to  my  Love   and 

thine ; 
For  Love  is  Life,  and  Death  at 

last 
Crowns  it  eternal  and  divine  ! 


RECOLLECTIONS. 

As    strangers,   you    and   I   are 

here  ; 

We  both  as  aliens  stand 
Where  once,  in  years  gone  by,  I 

dwelt 

No  stranger  in  the  land. 
Then  while  you  gaze  on  park 

and  stream, 
Let  me  remain  apart, 
And    listen    to    the    awakened 

sound 
Of  voices  in  my  heart. 

Here,  where  upon  the  velvet  lawn 
The  cedar  spreads  its  shade, 

And  by  the  flower-beds  all  around 
Bright  roses  bloom  and  fade, 


Shrill   merry  childish    laughter 
rings, 

And  bahy  voices  sweet, 
And  by  me,  on  the  path,  I  hear 

The  tread  of  little  feet. 

Down  the  dark  avenue  of  limes, 

Whose  perfume  loads  the  air, 
Whose  boughs  are  rustling  over- 
head, 

(For  the  west-wind  is  there,) 
I  hear  the  sound  of  earnest  talk, 

Warnings  and  counsels  wise, 
And  the  quick  questioning  that 
brought 

Such  gentle,  calm  replies. 

Still  the  light  bridge  hangs  o'er 

the  lake, 

Where  broad-leaved  lilies  lie, 
And  the  cool  water  shows  again 
The    cloud    that    moves    on 

high ;  — 
And  one  voice  speaks,  in  tones 

I  thought 

The  past  forever  kept ; 
But  now  I  know,  deep  in   my 

heart 
Its  echoes  only  slept. 

I  hear,  within  the  shady  porch, 

Once    more,    the    measured 

sound 
Of  the  old  ballads  that  were  read, 

While  we  sat  listening  round  j 
The  starry  passion-flower  still     , 

Up  the  green  trellis  climbs; 
The    tendrils   waving    seem    to 
keep 

The  cadence  of  the  rhymes. 


ILLUSION. 


87 


I  might  have  striven,  and  striven 
in  vain, 

Such  visions  to  recall, 
Well  known  and  yet  forgotten  ; 
now 

I  see,  I  hear,  them  all ! 
The  Present  pales  before  the  Past, 

Who  comes  with  angel  wings  ; 
As  in  a  dream  I  stand,  amidst 

Strange  yet  familiar  things  ! 

Enough  ;  so  let  us  go,  mine  eyes 

Are  blinded  by  their  tears ; 
A  voice  speaks  to  my  soul  to-day 

Of  long-forgotten  years. 
And  yet  the  vision  in  my  heart, 

In  a  few  hours  more, 
Will  fade  into  the  silent  past, 

Silently  as  before. 


ILLUSION. 

WHERE  the  golden  corn  is  bend- 
ing, 

And  the  singing  reapers  pass, 
Where  the  chestnut  woods  are 

sending 
Leafy  showers  upon  the  grass, 

The  blue  river  onward  flowing 
Mingles  with  its  noisy  strife, 

The    murmur    of    the    flowers 

growing, 
And  the  hum  of  insect  life. 

I  from  that  rich  plain  was  gazing 
Towards    the    snowy   moun- 
tains high, 


Who  their  gleaming  peaks  were 

raising 
Up  against  the  purple  sky. 

And  the  glory  of  their  shining, 
Bathed  in  clouds  of  rosy 

light, 

Set  my  weary  spirit  pining 
For    a    home    so    pure    and 
bright ! 

So  I  left  the  plain,  and  weary, 
Fainting,  yet  with  hope  sus- 
tained, 
Toiled  through  pathways   long 

and  dreary 

Till    the    mountain-top    was 
gained. 

Lo  !  the  height  that  I  had  taken, 
As  so  shining  from  below, 

Was  a  desolate,  forsaken 
Region  of  perpetual  snow. 

I  am  faint,  my  feet  are  bleeding, 
All  my  feeble  strength  is  worn, 

In  the  plain  no  soul  is  heeding, 
I  am  here  alone,  forlorn. 

Lights  are  shining,  bells  are  toll- 
ing, 

In  the  busy  vale  below ; 
Near    me   night's  black  clouds 

are  rolling, 

Gathering    o'er   a   waste   of 
snow. 

So  I  watch  the  river  winding 
Through    the    misty    fading 
plain, 


A    VISION. 


Bitter  arc  the  tear-drops  blind- 
ing, 

Bitter,  useless  toil  and  pain, — 
Bitterest  of  all  the  finding 
That  my  dream  was  false  and 
vain! 


A  VISION. 

GLOOMY  and  black  are  the  cy- 
press-trees, 
Drearily  waileth  the  chill  night 

breeze. 
The  long  grass  waveth,the  tombs 

are  white, 
And  the  black  clouds  flit  o'er  the 

chill  moonlight. 
Silent  is  all  save  the  dropping 

rain, 
When  slowly  there    comcth    a 

mourning  train ; 
The  lone  churchyard  is  dark  and 

dim, 
And  the  mourners  raise  a  funeral 

hymn. 

"  Open,  dark   grave,  and    take 

her; 

Though  we  have  loved  her  so, 
Yet  we  must  now  forsake  her, 
Love  will  no  more  awake  her : 

(O  bitter  woe !) 
Open  thine  arms  and  take  her 
To  rest  below ! 

"  Vain  is  our  mournful  weeping, 

Her  gentle  life  is  o'er ; 
Only  the  worm  is  creeping, 


Where  she  will  soon  be  sleeping 

Forevcrmore : 
Nor  joy  nor  love  is  keeping 

For  hur  in  store ! " 


Gloomy  and  black  are  the  cy- 
press-trees, 

And  drearily  wave  in  the  chill 
night  breeze. 

The  dark  clouds  part  and  the 
heavens  are  blue, 

Where  the  trembling  stars  are 
shining  through. 

Slowly  across  the  gleaming  sky, 

A  crowd  of  white  angels  are  pass- 
ing by. 

Like  a  fleet  of  swans  they  float 
along, 

Or  the  silver  notes  of  a  dying 
song. 

Like  a  cloud  of  incense  their 
pinions  rise, 

Fading  away  up  the  purple  skies. 

But  hush  !  for  the  silent  glory  is 
stirred 

By  a  strain  such  as  earth  has 
never  heard : 


"  Open,    O    Heaven !    we    bear 

her, 

This  gentle  maiden  mild, 
Earth's  griefs  we  gladly  spare 

her, 
From  earthlv  joys  \ve  tear  her, 

Still  undented; 

And  to  thine  arms  we  bear  her, 
Thine  own,  thy  child. 


PICTURES  IN   THE  FIRE. 


89 


"  Open,  O  Heaven !  no  morrow 

Will  see  this  joy  o'ercast, 
No  pain,  no  tears,  no  sorrow, 
Her  gentle  heart  will  borrow ; 

Sad  life  is  past ; 
Shielded  and  safe  from  sorrow, 

At  home  at  last." 

But  the  vision  faded  and  all  was 
still, 

On  the  purple  valley  and  distant 
hill. 

No  sound  was  there  save  the  wail- 
ing breeze, 

The  rain,  and  the  rustling  cy- 
press-trees. 


PICTURES  IN  THE  FIRE. 

WHAT  is  it  you  ask  me,  darling  ? 
All    my    stories,    child,    you 

know ; 
I  have  no  strange  dreams  to  tell 

you, 
Pictures  I  have  none  to  show. 

Tell  you  glorious  sccnesof  travel  ? 

Nay,  my  child,  that  cannot  be, 
I  have  seen  no  foreign  countries, 

Marvels  none  on  land  or  sea. 

Yet  strange    sights    iu   truth  I 

witness, 

Ami  I  gaze  until  I  tire ; 
Wondrous     pictures,     changing 

ever, 
As  I  look  into  the  fire. 


There,  last  night,  I  saw  a  cavern, 
Black  as  pitch ;  within  it  lay, 

Coiled  in  many  folds,  a  dragon, 
Glaring  as  if  turned  at  bay. 

And  a  knight  in  dismal  armor 
On  a  winged  eagle  came, 

To  do  battle  with  this  dragon  : 
And  his  crest  was  all  of  flame. 

As  I  gazed  the  dragon  faded, 
And,      instead,      sat     Pluto 

crowned 

By  a  lake  of  burning  fire  ; 
Spirits   dark  were   crouching 
round. 

That  was  gone,  and  lo!  before 
me, 

A  cathedral  vast  and  grim ; 
I  could  almost  hear  the  organ 

Peal  along  the  arches  dim. 

As  I  watched  the  wreathed  pil- 
lars, 

Groves  of  stately  palms  arose, 
And  a  group  of  swarthy  Indians 

Stealing  on  some  sleeping  foes. 

Stay  :  a  cataract  glancing  bright- 

iy 

Dashed  and  sparkled  ;  and  be- 
side 
Lay  a  broken  marble  monster, 

Mouth  and  eyes  were  staring- 
wide. 

Then  I  saw  a  maiden  wreathing 
Starry    flowers    in    garlands 
sweet; 


90 


THE  SETTLERS. 


Did  she  see  the  fiery  serpent 
That  was  wrapped  about  her 
feet? 

That  fell  crashing  all  and  van- 
ished ; 

And  I  saw  two  armies  close,  — 
I  could  almost  hear  the  clarions, 

And  the  shouting  of  the  foes. 
They  were  gone  ;  and  lo  !  bright 
angels, 

On  a  barren  mountain  wild, 
Raised  appealing  arms  to  Heaven, 

Beai-ing  up  a  little  child. 

And   I   gazed,  and   gazed,  and 

slowly 

Gathered  in  my  eyes  sad  tears, 
And  the  fiery  pictures  bore  me 
Back  through  distant  dreams 
of  years. 

Once  again  I  tasted  sorrow, 
With  past  joy  was  once  more 

gay, 

Till    the    shade    had    gathered 

round  me  — 
And  the  fire  had  died  away. 


THE  SETTLERS. 

Two  stranger  youths  in  the  Far 

West, 
Beneath    the    ancient    forest 

trees, 

Pausing,  amid  their  toil  to  rest, 
Spake  of  their  home  beyond 
the  seas ; 


Spake  of  the  hearts  that  beat  so 

warmly, 
Of  the  hearts  they  loved   so 

well, 

In  their  chilly  Northern  country. 
"  Would,"  they  cried,   "  some 

voice  could  tell 
Where  they  are,  our  own  beloved 

ones ! " 
They  looked  up  to  the  evening 

sky 

Half  hidden  by  the  giant  branch- 
es, 
But  heard  no  angel-voice  re- 

piy- 

All  silent  was  the  quiet  evening  ; 

Silent  were  the  ancient  trees  ; 

They  only  heard  the  murmuring 

song 

Of  the  summer  breeze, 
That  gently  played  among 
The  acacia-trees. 

And  did  no  warning  spirit  an- 
swer, 

Amid  the  silence  all  around  : 
"  Before  the  lowly  village  altar 

She  thou  lovest  may  be  found, 
Thou,  who  trustest  still  so  blind- 

iy, 

Know  she   stands   a   smiling 

bride ! 
Forgetting    thee,    she     turncth 

kindly 

To  the  stranger  at  her  side. 
Yes,  this  day  thou  art  forgotten, 
Forgotten,  too,  thy  last  fare- 
well, 

All  the  vows  that  she  has  spoken, 
And  thy  heart  has  kept  so  well. 


HUSH! 


91 


Dream  no  more  of  a  starry  fu- 
ture, 

In  thy  home  beyond  the  seas ! " 
But  he  only  heard  the  gentle  sigh 

Of  the  summer  breeze, 
So  softly  passing  by 
The  acacia-trees. 

And  vainly,  too,  the  other,  looking 
Smiling  up  through  hopeful 

tears, 
Asked  in  his   heart   of  hearts, 

"  Where  is  she, 
She  I  love  these  many  years  1 " 
He  heard  no  echo  calling  faintly  : 
"Lo,  she  lieth  cold  and  pale, 
And  her  smile  so  calm  and  saintly 
Heeds    not   grieving    sob    or 

wail,  — 
Heeds  not  the  lilies  strewn  upon 

her, 

Pure  as  she  is,  and  as  white, 
Or  the  solemn  chanting  voices, 
Or  the  taper's  ghastly  light." 
But  silent  still  was  the  ancient 

forest, 

Silent  were  the  gloomy  trees  ; 
He  only  heard  the  wailing  sound 

Of  the  summer  breeze, 
That  sadly  played  around 
The  acacia-trees  ! 


HUSH! 

;  I  CAN  scarcely  hear,"  she  mur- 
mured, 

"  For  my  heart  beats  loud  and 
fast, 


But  surely,  in   the  far,  far  dis- 
tance, 

I  can  hear  a  sound  at  last." 
"  It  is  only  the  reapers  sing- 

iiur, 
As  they  carry  home  their 

sheaves ; 
And  the  evening  breeze  has 

risen, 

And    rustles    the    dying 
leaves." 


"  Listen  !  there  are  voices  talk- 
ing." 
Calmly   still    she    strove    to 

speak, 
Yet  her  voice   grew  faint   and 

trembling, 
And  the  red  flushed  in  her 

check. 
"  It    is   only   the   children 

playing 
Below,  now  their  work  is 

done, 
And  they  laugh  that  their 

eyes  are  dazzled 
By  the  rays  of  the  setting 
sun." 


Fainter    grew    her    voice,   and 

weaker, 

As  with  anxious  eyes  she  cried, 
"Down  the  avenue  of  chestnuts, 
I  can  hear  a  horseman  ride." 
"  It  was  only  the  deer  that 

were  feeding 
In  a  herd  on  the  clover- 
grass, 


92 


HOURS. 


They  were  startled,  and  fled 

to  the  thicket, 
As  they  saw  the  reapers 
pass." 

Now  the  night  arose  in  silence, 
Birds  lay  in  their  leafy  nest, 
And  the   deer   couched   in   the 

forest, 

And  the  children  were  at  rest : 
There  was  only  a  sound  of 

weeping 
From  watchers  around  a 

bed, 

But  Rest  to  the  weary  spirit, 
Peace  to  the  quiet  Dead  ! 


HOURS. 

WHEN  the  bright  stars  came  out 

last  night, 

And  the  dew  lay  on  the  flow- 
ers, 

I  had  a  vision  of  delight,  — 
A  dream  of  bygone  hours. 

Those  hours  that  came  and  fled 

so  fast, 

Of  pleasure  or  of  pain, 
As  phantoms  rose  from  out  the 

past 
Before  my  eyes  again. 

With  heating  heart  did  I  behold 
A  train  of  joyous  hours, 

Lit  with  the  radiant  light  of  old, 
And,  smiling,  crowned  with 
flowers. 


And  some  were  hours  of  childish 

sorrow, 

A  mimicry  of  pain, 
That  through  their  tears  looked 

for  a  morrow 
They  knew  must  smile  again. 

Those  hours  of  hope  that  longed 

for  life, 

And  wished  their  part  begun, 
And  ere   the  summons  to   the 

strife 

Dreamed   that  the  field  wag 
won. 

I  knew  the  echo  of  their  voice,  v 
The  starry  crowns  they  wore  ; 

The  vision  made  my  soul  rejoice 
With  the  old  thrill  of  yore. 

I   knew   the   perfume   of   their 

flowers ; 

The  glorious  shining  rays 
Around    these    happy,    smiling 

hours 
Were  lit  in  bygone  days. 

O  stay,  I  cried,  —  bright  visions, 

stay, 

And  leave  me  not  forlorn ! 
But,  smiling  still,   they  passed 

away, 
Like  shadows  of  the  morn. 

One    spirit   still  remained,   and 

cried, 

"  Thy   soul   shall    ne'er   for- 
get ! " 

He  standeth  ever  by  my  side,  — 
The  phantom  called  Ilegret ! 


THE   TWO  INTERPRETERS. 


93 


But  still  the   spirits   rose,  and 

there 

Were  weary  hours  of  pain, 
And  anxious  hours  of  fear  and 

care 
Bound  by  an  iron  chain. 

Dim    shadows   came   of  lonely 

hours, 

That  shunned  the  light  of  day, 
And    in   the  opening-    smile    of 

flowers 
Saw  only  quick  decay. 

Calm    hours    that    sought    the 

starry  skies 

For  heavenly  lore  were  there; 
With  folded  hands  and  earnest 

eyes, 
I  knew  the  hours  of  prayer. 

Stern  hours  that  darkened   the 

sun's  light, 

Heralds  of  coming  woes, 
With  trailing  wings,  before  my 

sight 
From  the  dim  past  arose. 

As  each  dark  vision  passed  and 
spoke, 

I  prayed  it  to  depart : 
At  each  some  buried  sorrow  woke 

And  stirred  within  my  heart. 

Until  these  hours  of  pain  and 

care 

Lifted  their  tearful  eyes, 
Spread  their  dark  pinions  in  the 

air, 
And  passed  into  the  skies. 


THE   TWO   INTERPRET- 
ERS. 

THE  clouds  are  fleeting  by,  fa- 
ther; 

Look,  in  the  shining  west, 
The  great  white  clouds  sail  on- 
ward 

Upon  the  sky's  blue  breast. 
Look  at  a  snowy  eagle, 

His  wings  are  tinged  with  red, 
And    a    giant    dolphin    follows 

him, 
With  a  crown  upon  his  head ! " 

• 
The  father  spake  no  word,  but 

watched 

The  drifting  clouds  roll  by; 
He  traced  a  misty  vision  too 

Upon  the  shining  sky  : 
A   shadowy    form,    with    well- 
known  grace 
Of  weary  love  and  care, 
Above    the    smiling    child    she 

held, 
Shook  down  her  floating  hair. 

"  The  clouds  are  changing  now, 

father, 
Mountains    rise    higher    and 

higher ! 
And  see  where  red  and  purple 

ships 

Sail  in  a  sea  of  fire  ! " 
The  father  pressed  the  little  hand 

More  closely  in  his  own, 
And  watched  a  cloud-dream  in 

the  sky 
That  he  could  see  alone : 


94 


COMFORT. 


Bright  angels  carrying  far  away 

A  white  form,  cold  and  dead, 

Two  held  the  feet,  and  two  bore 

up 

The  flower-crowned,  drooping 
head. 

"See,  father,  see!  a  glory  floods 

The  sky,  and  all  is  bright, 
And  clouds  of  every  hue   and 
shade 

Burn  in  the  golden  light. 
And  now,  above  an  azure  lake, 

Rise  battlements  and  towers, 
"Where  knights  and  ladies  climb 
the  heights, 

All  bearing  purple  flowers." 

The  father  looked,  and,  with  a 

pang 

Of  love  and  strange  alarm, 
Drew  close  the  little  eager  child 

Within  his  sheltering  arm  ; 
From  out  the  clouds  the  mother 

looks 

With  wistful  glance  below, 
She  seems  to  seek  the  treasure 

left 

On  earth  so  long  ago  ; 
She  holds  her  arms  out  to  her 

child, 

His  cradle-song  she  sings : 

The  last  rays  of  the  sunset  gleam 

Upon  her  outspread  wings. 

Calm  twilight  veils  the  summer 
sky, 

The  shining  clouds  are  gone  ; 
In  vain  the  merry  laughing  child 

Still  gayly  prattles  on; 


In  vain  the  bright  stars,  one  by 
one, 

On  the  blue  silence  start, 
A  dreary  shadow  rests  to-night 

Upon  the  father's  heart. 


COMFORT. 

HAST  thou  o'er  the  clear  heaven 

of  thy  soul 
Seen  tempests  roll  ? 
Hast  thou  watched  all  the  hopes 

thou  wouldst  have  won 
Fade,  one  by  one  ? 
Wait    till  the    clouds   are  past, 

then  raise  thine  eyes 
To  bluer  skies. 

Hast  thou  gone  sadly  through  a 

dreary  night, 
And  found  no  light, 
No  guide,  no  star,  to  cheer  thee 

through  the  plain, 

No  friend,  save  pain  ? 

Wait,   and  thy  soul  shall    see, 

when  most  forlorn, 
Rise  a  new  morn. 

Hast  thou  beneath  another's  stern 

control 

Bent  thy  sad  soul, 
And    wasted   sacred  hopes   and 

precious  tears'? 
Yet  calm  thy  fears, 
For  thou  canst  gain,  even  from 

the  bitterest  part, 
A  stronger  heart. 


no  ME  AT  LAST. 


95 


Has  Fate  o'crwhelmed  thee  with 

some  sudden  blow  ? 
Let  thy  tears  flow ; 
But  know  when  storms  are  past, 

the  heavens  appear 
More  pure,  more  clear ; 
And  hope,  when   farthest  from 

their  shining  rays, 
For  brighter  days. 

Hast  thou  found  life  a  cheat,  and 

worn  in  vain 
Its  iron  chain  ? 
Has  thy  soul  bent  beneath  earth's 

heavy  bond  ? 
Look  thou  beyond ; 
If  life   is   bitter — there  forever 

shine 
Hopes  more  divine. 

Art  thou  alone,   and  does  thy 

soul  complain 
It  lives  in  vain  ? 
Not  vainly  does  he  live  who  can 

endure. 

O  be  thou  sure, 
That  he  who  hopes  and  suffers 

here,  can  earn 
A  sure  return. 

Hast  thou  found  naught  within 

thy  troubled  life 
Save  inward  strife  ? 
Hast  thou  found  all  she  promised 

thee,  Deceit, 
And  Hope  a  cheat  ? 
Endure,   and   there  shall    dawn 

within  thy  breast 
Eternal  resit ! 


HOME   AT  LAST. 

CHILD,  do  not  fear ; 
We  shall   reach   our  home  to- 
night, 
For  the  sky  is  clear, 

And  the  waters  bright ; 
And  the  breezes  have  scarcely 

strength 
To  unfold  that  little  cloud, 

That  like  a  shroud 
Spreads  out  its  fleecy  length  ; 

Then  have  no  fear, 
As  we  cleave  our  silver  way 
Through  the  waters  clear. 

Fear  not,  my  child ! 
Though  the  waves  are  white  and 

high, 
And  the  storm  blows  wild 

Through  the  gloomy  sky ; 

On  the  edge  of  the  western  sea, 

See  that  line  of  golden  light, 

Is  the  haven  bright 
"Where  home  is  awaiting  thee ; 

Where,  this  peril  past, 
We  shall  rest  from  our  stormy 

voyage 
In  peace  at  last. 

Be  not  afraid  •, 

But  give  me  thy  hand,  and  see 
How  the  waves  have  made 

A  cradle  for  thee. 
Night  is  come,  dear,  and  we  shall 

rest; 
So  turn  from  the  angry  skies, 

And  close  thine  eyes. 
And  lay  thy  head  on  my  breast : 


96 


UNEXPRESSED. 


Child,  do  not  weep; 
In  the  calm,  cold,  purple  depths 
There  we  shall  sleep. 


UNEXPRESSED. 

DWELLS  within  the  soul  of  every 
Artist 

More  than  all  his  effort  can  ex- 
press ; 

And  he  knows  the  best  remains 
unuttered ; 

Sighing  at  what  we  call  his  suc- 
cess. 

Vainly  he  may  strive;  he  dare 
not  tell  us 

All  the  sacred  mysteries  of  the 
skies ; 

Vainly  he  may  strive,  the  deep- 
est beauty 

Cannot  be  unveiled  to  mortal 
eyes. 

And  the  more  devoutly  that  he 
listens, 

And  the  holier  message  that  is 
sent, 

Still  the  more  his  soul  must 
struggle  vainly, 

Bowed  beneath  a  noble  discon- 
tent. 

No  great  Thinker  ever  lived  and 
taught  you 

All  the  wonder  that  his  soul  re- 
ceived ; 


No  true  Painter  ever  set  on 
canvas 

All  the  glorious  vision  he  con- 
ceived. 

No  Musician  ever  held  your 
spirit 

Charmed  and  bound  in  his  me- 
lodious chains, 

But  be  sure  he  heard,  and  strove 
to  render, 

Feeble  echoes  of  celestial  strains. 


No  real  Poet  ever  wove  in  num- 
bers 

All  his  dream ;  but  the  diviner 
part, 

Hidden  from  all  the  world,  spake 
to  him  only 

In  the  voiceless  silence  of  his  ' 
heart. 

So  with  Love  :  for  Love  and  Art 
united 

Are  twin  mysteries ;  different,  yet 
the  same  : 

Poor  indeed  would  be  the  love 
of  any 

Who  could  find  its  full  and  per- 
fect name. 


Love  may  strive,  but  vain  is  thel 
endeavor 

All  its  boundless  riches  to  un- 
fold ; 

Still   its   tendcrest,  truest  sec 


lingers 
Ever  in  its  deepest  depths  u 


told. 


: 


REST  AT  EVENING. 


97 


Things  of  Time  have  voices : 
Bpeak  and  perish. 

Art  and  Love  speak ;  but  their 
words  must  be 

Like  sighings  of  illimitable  for- 
ests, 

And  waves  of  an  unfathomable 
sea. 


BECAUSE. 

IT  is  not  because  your  heart  is 

mine  — mine  only  — 
Mine  alone  ; 
It  is  not  because  you  chose  me, 

weak  and  lonely, 
For  your  own ; 
Not  because  the  earth  is  fairer, 

and  the  skies 
Spread  above  you 
Are  more  radiant  for  the  shining 

of  your  eyes  — 
That  I  love  you ! 

It  is  not  because  the  world's  per- 
plexed meaning 
Grows  more  clear ; 
And  the   Parapets   of  Heaven, 

with  angels  leaning, 
Seem  more  near; 
And  Nature  sings  of  praise  with 

all  her  voices 
Since  yours  spoke, 
Since   within   my   silent   heart, 

that  now  rejoices, 
Love  awoke  ! 

Nay,  not  even  because  your  hand 

holds  heart  and  life  ; 
At  your  will 


Soothing,  hushing  all  its  discord, 

making  strife 
Calm  and  still ; 
Teaching  Trust  to  fold  her  wings, 

nor  ever  roam 
From  her  nest ; 
Teaching  Love  that  her  securest, 

safest  home 
Must  be  Rest. 

But  because  this  human  Love, 
though  true  and  sweet  — ' 
Yours  and  mine  — 
Has  been  sent  by  Love  more  ten- 
der, more  complete, 
More  divine ; 
That  it  leads  our  hearts  to  rest 

at  last  in  Heaven, 
Far  above  you ; 
Do  I  take  you  as  a  gift  that  God 

has  given  — 
—  And  I  love  you  ! 


BEST  AT  EVENING. 

WHEN*  the  weariness  of  Life  is 
ended, 

And  the  task  of  our  long  day  is 
done, 

And  the  props,  on  which  onr 
hearts  depended, 

All  have  failed  or  broken,  one 
by  one ; 

Evening  and  our  Sorrow's  shad- 
ow blended, 

Telling  us  that  peace  is  now  be- 
gan. 


98 


A  RETROSPECT. 


How  far  back  will  seem  the  sun's 

first  dawning, 
And  those  early  mists  so  cold  and 

gray! 
Half  forgotten  even  the  toil  of 

morning, 
And  the  heat  and  burden  of  the 

day  : 
Flowers  that  we  were   tending, 

and  weeds  scorning, 
All  alike  withered  and  cast  away. 


Vain  will  seem  the  impatient 
heart,  which  waited 

Toils  that  gathered  but  too  quick- 
ly round ; 

And  the  childish  joy,  so  soon 
elated 

At  the  path  we  thought  none  else 
had  found  ; 

And  the  foolish  ardor,  soon 
abated 

By  the  storm  which  cast  us  to 
the  ground. 


Vain  those  pauses  on  the  road, 
each  seeming 

As  our  final  home  and  resting- 
place  ; 

And  the  leaving  them,  while 
tears  were  streaming 

Of  eternal  sorrow  down  our 
face; 

And  the  hands  we  held,  fond 
folly  dreaming 

That  no  future  could  their  touch 
efface. 


All  will  then  be  faded  :  —  night 
will  borrow 

Stars  of  light  to  crown  our  per- 
fect rest ; 

And  the  dim  vague  memory  of 
faint  sorrow 

Just  remain  to  show  us  all  was 
best, 

Then  melt  into  a  divine  to-mor- 
row :  — 

O  how  poor  a  day  to  be  so  blest ! 


A  RETROSPECT. 

FBOM  this  fair  point  of  present 

bliss, 

Where  we  together  stand, 
Let   me  look  back  once  more, 

and  trace 

That  long  and  desert  land, 
Wherein  till  now  was  cast  my  lot, 
and  I  could  live,  and  thou 
wert  not. 

Strange  that  my  heart  could  beat, 

and  know 

Alternate  joy  and  pain, 
That  suns  could  roll  from  east 

to  west, 

And  clouds  could  pass  in  rain, 
And  the  slow  hours  without  thee 
fleet,  nor  stay  their  noiseless 
silver  feet. 

What  had  I  then  ?  a  Hope,  that 

grew 

Each  hour  more  bright  and 
dear, 


TRUE  OR  FALSE. 


99 


The  flush  upon  the  eastern  skies 
That   showed    the   sun    was 

near :  — 
Now  night  has  faded  far  away, 

my  sun  has  risen,  and  it  is 

day. 

A  dim  Ideal  of  tender  grace 

In  my  soul  reigned  supreme  ; 
Too    noble    and    too    sweet    I 

thought 

To  live,  save  in  a  dream ;  — 
Within  thy  heart  to-day  it  lies, 
and  looks  on  me  from  thy 
dear  eyes. 

Some    gentle    spirit  —  Love    I 

thought — 

Built  many  a  shrine  of  pain  ; 
Though   each  false  Idol  fell  to 

dust, 

The  worship  was  not  vain, 
But  a  faint,  radiant  shadow  cast 
back  from  our  Love  upon 
the  Past. 

And   Grief,  too,  held   her  vigil 

there ; 

With  unrelenting  sway 
Breaking     my     cloudy    visions 

down, 

Throwing  my  flowers  away :  — 
I  owe  to   her  fond  care  alone 
that  I  may  now  be  all  thine 
own. 

Fair  Joy  was  there,  —  her  flut- 
tering wings 
At  times  she  strove  to  raise ; 


Watching  through  long  and  pa- 
tient nights, 
Listening  long  eager  days  : 

I  know  now  that  her  heart  and 
mine  were  waiting,  Love,  to 
welcome  thine. 

Thus    I    can    read    thy   name 

throughout, 

And,  now  her  task  is  done, 
Can  see  that  even  that  faded  Past 

Was  thine,  belove'd  one, 
And  so  rejoice  my  Life  may  be  all 
consecrated,  dear,  to  thee. 


TRUE  OR  FALSE. 

So  you  think  you  love  me,  do 

you  ? 

Well,  it  may  be_so  ; 
But  there  are  many  ways  of  lov- 
ing 

I  have  learnt  to  know. 
Many  ways,   and  but  one  true 

way, 

Which  is  very  rare ; 
And  the  counterfeits  look  bright- 
est, 
Though  they  will  not  wear. 

Yet    they    ring,   almost,   quite 

truly, 

Last  (with  care)  for  long  ; 
But  in  time  must   break,   may 

shiver 
At  a  touch  of  wrong : 


100 


TRUE  OR  FALSE. 


Having  seen  what  looked  most 
real 

Crumble  into  dust; 
Now  I  chose  that  test  and  trial 

Should  precede  my  trust. 

I  have  seen  a  love  demanding 

Time  and  hope  and  tears, 
Chaining  all  the  past,  exacting 

Bonds  from  future  years  ; 
Mind   and   heart,  and  joy  and 
sorrow, 

Claiming  as  its  fee : 
That   was    Love  of    Self,   and 
never, 

Never  Love  of  me ! 


I  have  seen  a  love  forgetting 

All  above,  beyond, 
Linking  every  dream  and  fancy 

In  a  sweeter  bond ; 
Counting  every  hour  worthless, 

Which  was  cold  or  free  :  — 
That,   perhaps,  was  —  Love  of 
Pleasure, 

But  not  Love  of  me ! 


I  have  seen  a  love  whose  pa- 
tience 

Never  turned  aside, 
Full  of  tender,  fond  devices  ; 

Constant,  even  when  tried  ; 
Smallest  boons  were  held  as  vic- 
tories, 

Drops  that  swelled  the  sea  : 
That   I   think   was  —  Love    of 

Power, 
But  not  Love  of  me  ! 


I  have  seen  a  love  disdaining 
Ease  and  pride  and  fame, 
Burning  even  its  own  white  pin- 
ions 

Just  to  feed  its  flame ; 
Reigning  thus,  supreme,  trium- 
phant, 

By  the  soul's  decree ; 
That   was  —  Love    of    Love,   I 

fancy, 
But  not  Love  of  me  ! 

I  have    heard  —  or   dreamt,   it 
may  be  — 

What  Love  is  when  true  ; 
How  to  test  and  how  to  try  it, 

Is  the  gift  of  few  : 
These  few  say  (or  did  I  dream 
it?) 

That  true  Love  abides 
In  these  very  things,  but  always 

Has  a  soul  besides. 

Lives    among   the    false   loves, 
knowing 

Just  their  peace  and  strife ; 
Bears  the  self-same  look,  but  al- 
ways 

Has  an  inner  life. 
Only  a  true  heart  can  find  it, 

True  as  it  is  true, 
Only  eyes  as  clear  and  tender 

Look  it  through  and  through. 

If  it  dies,  it  will  not  perish 
By  Time's  slow  decay, 

True  Love  only  grows  (they  tell 

me) 
Stronger,  day  by  day  : 


GOLDEN   WORDS. 


101 


Pain  —  has  been  its  friend  and 
comrade  ; 

Fate  —  it  can  defy  ; 
Only  by  its  own  sword,  sometimes 

Love  can  choose  to  dio.J '     , 

And   its   grave   shall    be   more 
noble 

And  more  sacred  still, 
Than  a  throne,  where  one  less 
worthy 

Reigns  and  rules  at  will. 
Tell  me  then,  do  you  dare  offer 

This  true  Love  to  me  1  ... 
Neither  you  nor  I  can  answer; 

We  will  —  wait  and  see ! 


GOLDEN  WORDS. 

SOME    words    are    played     on 
golden  strings, 

Which  I  so  highly  rate, 
I  cannot  bear  for  meaner  things 

Their  sound  to  desecrate. 

For  every  day  they  are  not  meet, 
Or  for  a  careless  tone ; 

They  are  for  rarest,  and  most 

sweet, 
And  noblest  use  alone. 

One  word   is   POET  :  which  is 

flung 

So  carelessly  away, 
When  such  as  you  and  I  have 

sung, 
We  hear  it,  day  by  day. 


Men  pay  it  for  a  tender  phrase 
Set  in  a  cadenocd  rhyme  : 

I  kteu  it  as  u  cfc'wn  of  praise 
To  crown  the  kings  of  time. 


X  thV,  slightest  feel- 
ings,  stirred 
By  trivial  fancy,  seek 
Expression  in  that  golden  word 
They  tarnish  while  they  speak. 

Nay,  let  the  heart's  slow,  rare 
decree, 

That  word  in  reverence  keep  ; 
Silence  herself  should  only  be 

More  sacred  and  more  deep. 

FOREYER  :  men  have  grown  at 
length 

To  use  that  word,  to  raise 
Some  feeble  protest  into  strength, 

Or  turn  some  tender  phrase. 

It  should  be  said  in  awe  and  fear 
By  true  heart  and  strong  will, 

And  burn  more  brightly  year  by 

year, 
A  starry  witness  still. 

HOXOR  :  all  trifling  hearts   are 

fond 

Of  that  divine  appeal, 
And    men,   upon   the   slightest 

bond, 
Set  it  as  slighter  seal. 

That  word  should  meet  a  noble  foe 

Upon  a  noble  field, 
And  echo  —  like  a  deadly  blow 

Turned  by  a  silver  shield. 


102 


GOLDEN   WORDS. 


Trust  me,  the  worth  of  words  is 

such    .  ( > 

They  guard  &11  noble  thiiips, 
And   that   this   rash    irreverent 

touch 

Has     jarred     tome     golden 
strings. 

For  what  the  lips  have  lightly 

said 

The  heart  will  lightly  hold, 
And  things  on  which  we  daily 

tread 
Are  lightly  bought  and  sold. 

The  sun  of  every  day  will  bleach 
The  costliest  purple  hue, 


And    so     our    common     diily 
.     speech 
'Discolors  what  was  true. 


Hut  as  you  keep  some  thoughts 
apart 

In  sacred  honored  care, 
If  in  the  silence  of  your  heart, 

Their  utterance  too  be  rare ; 


Then,  while  a  thousand  words 
repeat 

Unmeaning  clamors  all, 
Melodious  golden  echoes  sweet 

Shall  answer  when  you  call. 


LEGENDS    AND    LYRICS 

A   BOOK    OF    VERSES. 


SECOND  SERIES. 


LEGENDS  AND  LYEICS. 


A  LEGEND   OF  PROVENCE. 

THE  lights  extinguished,  by  the  hearth  I  leant, 
Half  weary  with  a  listless  discontent. 
The  flickering  giant-shadows,  gathering  near, 
Closed  round  me  with  a  dim  and  silent  fear. 
All  dull,  all  dark  ;  save  when  the  leaping  flame, 
Glancing,  lit  up  a  Picture's  ancient  frame. 
Above  the  hearth  it  hung.     Perhaps  the  night, 
My  foolish  tremors,  or  the  gleaming  light, 
Lent  power  to  that  Portrait  dark  and  quaint,  — 
A  Portrait  such  as  Rembrandt  loved  to  paint,  — 
The  likeness  of  a  Nun.     I  seemed  to  trace 
A  world  of  sorrow  in  the  patient  face, 
In  the  thin  hands  folded  across  her  breast :  — 
Its  own  and  the  room's  shadow  hid  the  rest. 
I  gazed  and  dreamed,  and  the  dull  embers  stirred, 
Till  an  old  legend  that  I  once  had  heard 
Came  back  to  me;  linked  to  the  mystic  gloom 
Of  that  dark  Picture  in  the  ghostly  room 

In  the  far  south,  where  clustering  vines  are  hung; 
Where  first  the  old  chivalric  lays  were  sung  ; 
"Where  earliest  smiled  that  gracious  child  of  France, 
Angel  and  knight  and  fairy,  called  Romance, 
I  stood  one  day.     The  warm  blue  June  was  spread 
Upon  the  earth  ;  blue  summer  overhead, 
Without  a  cloud  to  fleck  its  radiant  glare, 
Without  a  breath  to  stir  its  sultry  air. 
All  still,  all  silent,  save  the  sobbing  rush 
Of  rippling  waves,  that  lapsed  in  silver  hush 


106  -A  LEGEND   OF  PROVENCE. 

Upon  the  beach ;  where,  glittering  towards  the  strand, 
The  purple  Mediterranean  kissed  the  land. 

All  still,  all  peaceful ;  when  a  convent  chime 

Broke  on  the  mid-day  silence  for  a  time, 

Then  trembling  into  quiet,  seemed  to  cease, 

In  deeper  silence  and  more  utter  peace. 

So  as  I  turned  to  gaze,  where  gleaming  white, 

Half  hid  by  shadowy  trees  from  passers'  sight, 

The  Convent  lay,  one  who  had  dwelt  for  long 

In  that  fair  home  of  ancient  tale  and  song, 

Who  knew  the  story  of  each  cave  and  hill, 

And  every  haunting  fancy  lingering  still 

Within  the  land,  spake  thus  to  me,  and  told 

The  Convent's  treasured  Legend,  quaint  and  old  :  — 

Long  years  ago,  a  dense  and  flowering  wood, 
Still  more  concealed  where  the  white  convent  stood, 
Borne  on  its  perfumed  wings  the  title  came : 
"  Our  Lady  of  the  Hawthorns  "  is  its  name. 
Then  did  that  bell,  which  still  rings  out  to-day, 
Bid  all  the  country  rise,  or  eat,  or  pray. 
Before  that  convent  shrine,  the  haughty  knight 
Passed  the  lone  vigil  of  his  perilous  fight ; 
For  humbler  cottage  strife  or  village  brawl, 
The  Abbess  listened,  prayed,  and  settled  all. 
Young  hearts  that  came,  weighed  down  by  love  or  wrong, 
Left  her  kind  presence  comforted  and  strong. 
Each  passing  pilgrim,  and  each  beggar's  right 
Was  food,  and  rest,  and  shelter  for  the  night. 
But,  more  than  this,  the  Nuns  could  well  impart 
The  deepest  mysteries  of  the  healing  art; 
Their  store  of  herbs  and  simples  was  renowned, 
And  held  in  wondering  faith  for  miles  around. 
Thus  strife,  love,  sorrow,  good  and  evil  fate, 
Found  help  and  blessing  at  the  convent  gate. 

Of  all  the  nuns,  no  heart  was  half  so  light, 
No  eyelids  veiling  glances  half  as  bright, 
No  step  that  glided  with  such  noiseless  feet, 
No  face  that  looked  so  tender  or  so  sweet, 


A  LEGEND   OF  PROVENCE.  107 

No  voice  that  rose  in  choir  so  pure,  so  clear, 
No  heart  to  all  the  others  half  so  dear, 
So  surely  touched  by  others'  pain  or  woe, 
(Guessing  the  grief  her  young  life  could  not  know,) 
No  soul  in  childlike  faith  so  undefiled, 
As  Sister  Angela's,  the  "  Convent  Child." 
For  thus  they  loved  to  call  her.     She  had  known 
No  home,  no  love,  no  kindred,  save  their  own. 
An  orphan,  to  their  tender  nursing  given, 
Child,  plaything,  pupil,  now  the  Bride  of  Heaven. 
And  she  it  was  who  trimmed  the  lamp's  red  light 
That  swung  before  the  altar,  day  and  night ; 
Her  hands  it  was  whose  patient  skill  could  trace 
The  finest  broidery,  weave  the  costliest  lace  ; 
But  most  of  all,  her  first  and  dearest  care, 
The  office  she  would  never  miss  or  share, 
Was  every  day  to  weave  fresh  garlands  sweet, 
To  place  before  the  shrine  at  Mary's  feet. 
Nature  is  bounteous  in  that  region  fair, 
For  even  winter  has  her  blossoms  there. 
Thus  Angela  loved  to  count  each  feast  the  best, 
By  telling  with  what  flowers  the  shrine  was  dressed. 
In  pomp  supreme  the  countless  Roses  passed, 
Battalion  on  battalion  thronging  fast, 
Each  with  a  different  banner,  flaming  bright, 
Damask,  or  striped,  or  crimson,  pink,  or  white, 
"  Until  they  bowed  before  a  newborn  queen, 
And  the  pure  virgin  Lily  rose  serene. 
Though  Angela  always  thought  the  Mother  blest 
Must  love  the  time  of  her  own  hawthorn  best, 
Each  evening  through  the  year,  with  equal  care, 
She  placed  her  flowers ;  then  kneeling  down  in  prayer, 
As  their  faint  perfume  rose  before  the  shrine, 
So  rose  her  thoughts,  as  pure  and  as  divine. 
She  knelt  until  the  shades  grew  dim  without, 
Till  one  by  one  the  altar  lights  shone  out, 
Till  one  by  one  the  Nuns,  like  shadows  dim, 
Gathered  around  to  chant  their  vesper  hymn ; 
Ilur  voice  then  led  the  music's  winge'd  flight, 
And  "  Ave,  Maris  Stella  "  filled  the  night. 


108  A  LEGEND   OF  PROVENCE. 

But  wherefore  linger  on  those  days  of  peace  1 

When  storms  draw  near,  then  quiet  hours  must  cease. 

War,  cruel  war,  defaced  the  land,  and  came 

So  near  the  convent  with  its  breath  of  flame, 

That,  seeking  shelter,  frightened  peasants  fled, 

Sobbing  out  tales  of  coming  fear  and  dread. 

Till  after  a  fierce  skirmish,  down  the  road, 

One  night  came  straggling  soldiers,  with  their  load 

Of  wounded,  dying  comrades  ;  and  the  band, 

Half  pleading,  yet  as  if  they  could  command, 

Summoned  the  trembling  Sisters,  craved  their  care, 

Then  rode  away,  and  left  the  wounded  there. 

But  soon  compassion  bade  all  fear  depart, 

And  bidding  every  Sister  do  her  part, 

Some  prepare  simples,  healing  salves,  or  bands, 

The  Abbess  chose  the  more  experienced  hands, 

To  dress  the  wounds  needing  most  skilful  care ; 

Yet  even  the  youngest  Novice  took  her  share. 

To  Angela,  who  had  but  ready  will 

And  tender  pity,  yet  no  special  skill, 

Was  given  the  charge  of  a  young  foreign  knight, 

Whose  wounds  were  painful,  but  whose  danger  slight. 

Day  after  day  she  watched  beside  his  bed, 

And  first  in  hushed  repose  the  hours  fled : 

His  feverish  moans  alone  the  silence  stirred, 

Or  her  soft  voice,  uttering  some  pious  word. 

At  last  the  fever  left  him ;  day  by  day 

The  hours,  no  longer  silent,  passed  away. 

What  could  she  speak  of?     First,  to  still  his  plaints, 

She  told  him  legends  of  the  martyred  Saints  ; 

Described  the  pangs,  which,  through  God's  plenteous  grace, 

Had  gained  their  souls  so  high  and  bright  a  place. 

This  pious  artifice  soon  found  success  — 

Or  so  she  fancied  —  for  he  murmured  less. 

So  she  described  the  glorious  pomp  sublime, 

In  which  the  chapel  shone  at  Easter  time, 

The  Banners,  Vestments,  gold,  and  colors  bright, 

Counted  how  many  tapers  gave  their  light ; 

Then  in  minute  detail  went  on  to  say, 

How  the  High  Altar  looked  on  Christmas-day : 


A  LEG  END.  OF  PROVENCE.  109 

The  kings  and  shepherds,  all  in  green  and  red, 

And  a  bright  star  of  jewels  overhead. 

Then  told  the  sign  by  which  they  all  had  seen 

How  even  nature  loved  to  greet  her  Queen, 

For,  when  Our  Lady's  last  procession  went 

Down  the  long  garden,  every  head  was  bent, 

And,  rosary  in  hand,  each  Sister  prayed ; 

As  the  long  floating  banners  were  displayed, 

They  struck  the  hawthorn  boughs,  and  showers  and  showers 

Of  buds  and  blossoms  strewed  her  way  with  flowers. 

The  knight  unwearied  listened  ;  till  at  last, 

He  too  described  the  glories  of  his  past ; 

Tourney,  and  joust,  and  pageant  bright  and  fair, 

And  all  the  lovely  ladies  who  were  there. 

But  half  incredulous  she  heard.     Could  this  — 

This  be  the  world?  this  place  of  love  and  bliss! 

Where  then  was  hid  the  strange  and  hideous  charm, 

That  never  failed  to  bring  the  gazer  harm  ? 

She  crossed  herself,  yet  asked,  and  listened  still, 

And  still  the  knight  described  with  all  his  skill 

The  glorious  world  of  joy,  all  joys  above, 

Transfigured  in  the  golden  mist  of  love. 

Spread,  spread  your  wings,  ye  angel  guardians  bright, 

And  shield  these  dazzling  phantoms  from  her  sight ! 

But  no ;  days  passed,  matins  and  vespers  rang, 

And  still  the  quiet  Nuns  toiled,  prayed,  and  sang, 

And  never  guessed  the  fatal,  coiling  net 

Which  every  day  drew  near,  and  nearer  yet, 

Around  their  darling;  for  she  went  and  came 

About  her  duties,  outwardly  the  same. 

The  same?  ah,  no !  even  when  she  knelt  to  pray, 

Some  charme'd  dream  kept  all  her  heart  away. 

So  days  went  on,  until  the  convent  gate 

Opened  one  night.     Who  durst  go  forth  so  late? 

Across  the  moonlit  grass,  with  stealthy  tread, 

Two  silent,  shrouded  figures  passed  and  fled. 

And  all  was  silent,  save  the  moaning  seas, 

That  sobbed  and  pleaded,  and  a  wailing  breeze 

That  sighed  among  the  perfumed  hawthorn-trees. 


110  A  LEGEND    OF  PROVENCE. 

What  need  to  tell  that  dream  so  bright  and  brief, 

Of  joy  uncheckered  by  a  dread  of  grief? 

What  need  to  tell  how  all  such  dreams  must  fade, 

Before  the  slow,  foreboding,  dreaded  shade, 

That  floated  nearer,  until  pomp  and  pride, 

Pleasure  and  wealth,  were  summoned  to  her  side, 

To  bid,  at  least,  the  noisy  hours  forget, 

And  clamor  down  the  whispers  of  regret. 

Still  Angela  strove  to  dream,  and  strove  in  vain ; 

Awakened  once,  she  could  not  sleep  again. 

She  saw,  each  day  and  hour,  more  worthless  grown 

The  heart  for  which  she  cast  away  her  own ; 

And  her  soul  learnt,  through  bitterest  inward  strife, 

The  slight,  frail  love  for  which  she  wrecked  her  life, 

The  phantom  for  which  all  her  hope  was  given, 

The  cold  bleak  earth  for  which  she  bartered  heaven ! 

But  all  in  vain ;  would  even  the  tcnderest  heart 

Now  stoop  to  take  so  poor  an  outcast's  part  ? 


Years  fled,  and  she  grew  reckless  more  and  more, 
Until  the  humblest  peasant  closed  his  door, 
And  where  she  passed,  fair  dames,  in  scorn  and  pride, 
Shuddered,  and  drew  their  rustling  robes  aside. 
At  last  a  yearning  seemed  to  fill  her  soul, 
A  longing  that  was  stronger  than  control : 
Once  more,  just  once  again,  to  see  the  place 
That  knew  her  young  and  innocent;  to  retrace 
The  long  and  weary  southern  path ;  to  gaze 
Upon  the  haven  of  her  childish  days ; 
Once  more  beneath  the  convent  roof  to  lie; 
Once  more  to  look  upon  her  home  —  and  die! 
Weary  and  worn  —  her  comrades,  chill  remorse 
And  black  despair,  yet  a  strange  silent  force 
Within  her  heart,  that  drew  her  more  and  more  — 
Onward  she  crawled,  and  begged  from  door  to  door. 
Weighed  down  with  weary  days,  her  failing  strength 
Grew  less  each  hour,  till  one  day's  dawn  at  length, 
As  first  its  rays  flooded  the  world  with  light, 
Showed  the  broad  waters,  glittering  blue  and  bright, 


A  LEGEND   OF  PROVENCE.  \\\ 

And  where,  amid  the  leafy  hawthorn  wood, 

Just  as  of  old  the  quiet  cloister  stood. 

Would  any  know  her  ?     Nay,  no  fear.     Her  face 

Had  lost  all  trace  of  youth,  of  joy,  of  grace, 

Of  the  pure,  happy  soul  they  used  to  know  — 

The  novice  Angela  —  so  long  ago. 

She  rang  the  convent  bell.     The  well-known  sound 

Smote  on  her  heart,  and  bowed  her  to  the  ground. 

And  she,  who  had  not  wept  for  long,  dry  years, 

Felt  the  strange  rush  of  unaccustomed  tears  ; 

Terror  and  anguish  seemed  to  check  her  breath, 

And  stop  her  heart.     O  God  !  could  this  be  death  ? 

Crouching  against  the  iron  gate,  she  laid 

Her  weary  head  against  the  bars,  and  prayed : 

But  nearer  footsteps  drew,  then  seemed  to  wait ; 

And  then  she  heard  the  opening  of  the  grate, 

And  saw  the  withered  face,  on  which  awoke 

Pity  and  sorrow,  as  the  portress  spoke, 

And  asked  the  stranger's  bidding:  "  Take  me  in," 

She  faltered,  "  Sister  Monica,  from  sin, 

And  sorrow,  and  despair,  that  will  not  cease ; 

O,  take  me  in,  and  let  me  die  in  peace ! " 

With  soothing  words  the  Sister  bade  her  wait, 

Until  she  brought  the  key  to  unbar  the  gate. 

The  beggar  tried  to  thank  her  as  she  lay, 

And  heard  the  echoing  footsteps  die  away. 

But  what  soft  voice  was  that  which  sounded  near, 

And  stirred  strange  trouble  in  her  heart  to  hear  ? 

She  raised  her  head ;  she  saw  —  she  seemed  to  know  — 

A  face  that  came  from  long,  long  years  ago : 

Herself;  yet  not  as  when  she  fled  away, 

The  young  and  blooming  novice,  fair  and  gay, 

But  a  grave  woman,  gentle  and  serene : 

The  outcast  knew  it,  — ivhat  she  might  have  been. 

But,  as  she  gazed  and  gazed,  a  radiance  bright 

Filled  all  the  place  with  strange  and  sudden  light; 

The  Nun  was  there  no  longer,  but  instead, 

A  figure  with  a  circle  round  its  head, 

A  ring  of  glory ;  and  a  face,  so  meek, 

So  soft,  so  tender.  .  .  .  Angela  strove  to  speak, 


112  A  LEGEND   OF  PROVEN CE. 

And  stretched  her  hands  out,  crying,  "  Mary  mild, 

Mother  of  mercy,  help  me  !  —  help  your  child !  " 

And  Mary  answered,  "  From  thy  bitter  past, 

Welcome,  my  child  !     O,  welcome  home  at  last! 

I  filled  thy  place.     Thy  flight  is  known  to  none, 

For  all  thy  daily  duties  I  have  done ; 

Gathered  thy  flowers,  and  prayed,  and  sung,  and  slept ; 

Didst  thou  not  know,  poor  child,  thy  place  was  kept  1 

Kind  hearts  are  here ;  yet  would  the  tenderest  one 

Have  limits  to  its  mercy  :  God  has  none. 

And  man's  forgiveness  may  be  true  and  sweet, 

But  yet  he  stoops  to  give  it.     More  complete 

Is  Love  that  lays  forgiveness  at  thy  feet, 

And  pleads  with  thee  to  raise  it.     Only  Heaven 

Means  crowned,  not  vanquished,  when  it  says,  'Forgiven!'" 

Back  hurried  Sister  Monica ;  but  where 

Was  the  poor  beggar  she  left  lying  there? 

Gone ;  and  she  searched  in  vain,  and  sought  the  place 

For  that  wan  woman,  with  the  piteous  face  : 

But  only  Angela  at  the  gateway  stood, 

Laden  with  hawthorn  blossoms  from  the  wood. 

And  never  did  a  day  pass  by  again, 

But  the  old  portress,  with  a  sigh  of  pain, 

Would  sorrow  for  her  loitering :  with  a  prayer 

That  the  poor  beggar,  in  her  wild  despair, 

Might  not  have  come  to  any  ill ;  and  when 

She  ended,  "  God  forgive  her  !  "  humbly  then 

Did  Angela  bow  her  head,  and  say,  "  Amen  !  " 

How  pitiful  her  heart  was  !  all  could  trace 

Something  that  dimmed  the  brightness  of  her  face 

After  that  day,  which  none  had  seen  before ; 

Not  trouble  —  but  a  shadow  —  nothing  more. 


Years  passed  away.     Then,  one  dark  day  of  dread 
Saw  all  the  Sisters  kneeling  round  a  bed, 
Where  Angela  lay  dying ;  every  breath 
Struggling  beneath  the  heavy  hand  of  death. 
But  suddenly  a  flush  lit  up  her  check, 
She  raised  her  wan  right  hand,  and  strove  to  speak. 


A  LEGEND    OF  PROVENCE.  113 

In  sorrowing  love  they  listened  ;  not  a  sound 
Or  sigh  disturbed  the  utter  silence  round. 
The  very  tapers'  flames  were  scarcely  stirred, 
In  such  hushed  awe  the  Sisters  knelt  and  heard. 
And  through  that  silence  Angela  told  her  life : 
Her  sin,  her  flight ;  the  sorrow  and  the  strife, 
And  the  return ;  and  then  clear,  low,  and  calm, 
"  Praise  God  for  me,  my  sisters  "  ;  and  the  psalm 
Rang  up  to  heaven,  far  and  clear  and  wide, 
Again,  and  yet  again,  then  sank  and  died ; 
While  her  white  face  had  such  a  smile  of  peace, 
They  saw  she  never  heard  the  music  cease ; 
And  weeping  Sisters  laid  her  in  her  tomb, 
Crowned  with  a  wreath  of  perfumed  hawthorn  bloom. 

And  thus  the  Legend  ended.     It  may  be 
Something  is  hidden  in  the  mystery, 
Besides  the  lesson  of  God's  pardon  shown, 
Never  enough  believed,  or  asked,  or  known. 
Have  we  not  all,  amid  life's  petty  strife, 
Some  pure  ideal  of  a  noble  life 
That  once  seemed  possible?     Did  we  not  hear 
The  flutter  of  its  wings,  and  feel  it  near, 
And  just  within  our  reach?     It  was.     And  yet 
We  lost  it  in  this  daily  jar  and  fret, 
And  now  live  idle  in  a  vague  regret. 
But  still  our  place  is  kept,  and  it  will  wait, 
Ready  for  us  to  fill  it,  soon  or  late : 
No  star  is  ever  lost  we  once  have  seen, 
We  always  may  be  what  we  might  have  been. 
Since  Good,  though  only  thought,  has  life  and  breath, 
God's  life  —  can  always  be  redeemed  from  death; 
And  evil,  in  its  nature,  is  decay, 
And  any  hour  can  blot  it  all  away ; 
The  hopes  that  lost  in  some  far  distance  seem, 
May  be  the  truer  life,  and  this  the  dream. 


114  OVER   THE  MOUNTAIN. 

ENVY.  OVER   THE   MOUNTAIN. 


HE  was  the  first  always:  For- 

tune 

Shone  bright  in  his  face. 
I  fought  for  years  ;  with  no  ef- 

fort 

He  conquered  the  place  : 
We  ran  ;  my  feet  were  all  bleed- 

ing, 
But  he  won  the  race. 

Spite  of  his  many  successes, 
Men  loved  him  the  same  ; 

My  one  pale  ray  of  good  for- 

tune 
Met  scoffing  and  blame. 

When  we  erred,  they  gave  him 

P'ty. 
But  me  —  only  shame. 


My  home  was  still  in  the  shadow, 

His  lay  in  the  sun  : 
I  longed  in  vain  :  what  he  asked 

for 

It  straightway  was  done. 
Once   I   staked   all   my  heart's 

treasure, 
We  played  —  and  he  won. 

Yes  ;  and  just  now  I  have  seen 

him, 

Cold,  smiling,  and  blest, 
Laid  in   his  coffin.      God  help 

me  ! 

While  he  is  at  rest, 
I  am  cursed  still  to  live:  —  even 
Death  loved  him  the  best. 


LIKE  dreary  prison  walls 

The    stern,    gray    mountains 

rise, 
Until  their  topmost  crags 

Touch  the  far  gloomy  skies  -. 
One  steep  and  narrow  path 

Winds    up    the    mountain's 

crest, 
And  from  our  valley  leads 

Out  to  the  golden  West. 

I  dwell  here  in  content, 

Thankful  for  tranquil  days ; 
And  yet  my  eyes  grow  dim, 

As  still  I  gaze  and  gaze 
Upon_that  mountain  pass, 

That  leads  — or  so  it  seems  — 
To  some  far  happy  land, 

Known  in  a  world  of  dreams. 

And  as  I  watch  that  path 

Over  the  distant  hill, 
A  foolish  longing  comes 

My  heart  and  soul  to  fill, 
A  painful,  strange  desire 

To  break  some  weary  bond ; 
A  vague  unuttered  wish 

For  what  might  lie  beyond ! 

In  that  far  world  unknown, 

Over  that  distant  hill, 
May  dwell  the  loved  and  lost, 

Lost  —  yet  beloved  still; 
I  have  a  yearning  hope, 

Half  longing,  and  half  pain, 
That  by  that  mountain  pass 

They  may  return  again. 


BEYOND.  H5 


Space  may  keep  friends  apart, 

Death  has  a  mighty  thrall ; 
There  is  another  gulf 

Harder  to  cross  than  all ; 
Yet  watching  that  far  road, 

My  heart  beats  full  and  fast : 
If  they  should  come  once  more, 

If  they  should  come  at  last ! 


See,  down  the  mountain-side 

The  silver  vapors  creep ; 
They  hide  the  rocky  cliffs, 

They  hide  the  craggy  steep, 
They  hide  the  narrow  path 

That  comes  across  the  hill :  - 
O  foolish  longing,  cease, 

O  beating  Heart,  be  sti'J ! 


BEYOND. 

WE  must  not  doubt,  or  fear,  or  dread,  that  love  for  life  is  only  given, 
And  that  the  calm  and  sainted  dead  will  meet  estranged  and  cold  in 

heaven :  — 
O,  Love  were  poor  and  vain  indeed,  based  on  so  harsh  and  stern  a 

creed. 

True  that  this  earth  must  pass  away,  with  all  the  starry  worlds  of 

light, 

With  all  the  glory  of  the  day,  and  calmer  tenderness  of  night; 
For  in  that  radiant  home  can  shine  alone  the  immortal  and  divine. 

Earth's  lower  things  —  her  pride,  her  fame,  her  science,  learning, 
wealth,  and  power  — 

Slow  growths  that  through  long  ages  came,  or  fruits  of  some  con- 
vulsive hour, 

Whose  very  memory  must  decay  —  Heaven  is  too  pure  for  such  as  they. 

They  are  complete :  their  work  is  done.  So  let  them  sleep  in  end- 
less rest. 

Love's  life  is  only  here  begun,  nor  is,  nor  can  be,  fully  blest ; 
It  has  no  room  to  spread  its  wings,  amid  this  crowd  of  meaner  things. 

Just  for  the  very  shadow  thrown  upon  its  sweetness  here  below, 
The  cross  that  it  must  bear  alone,  and  bloody  baptism  of  woe, 
Crowned  and  completed  through  its  pain,  we  know  that  it  shall  rise 
again. 


116 


A    WARNING. 


So  if  its  flame  burn  pure  and  bright,  here,  where  our  air  is  dark  and 

dense, 

And  nothing  in  this  world  of  night  lives  with  a  living  so  intense ; 
When  it  shall  reach  its  home  at  length  —  how  bright  its  light !  how 

strong  its  strength ! 

And  while  the  vain  weak  loves  of  earth  (for  such  base  counterfeits 

abound ) 
Shall  perish  with  what  gave  them  birth  —  their  graves  are  green  and 

fresh  around, 
No  funeral  song  shall  need  to  rise  for  the  true  Love  that  never  dies. 

If  in  my  heart  I  now  could  fear  that,  risen  again,  we  should  not  know 
What  was  our  Life  of  Life  when  here,  —  the  hearts  we  loved  so  much 

below,  — 
I  would  arise  this  very  day,  and  cast  so  poor  a  thing  away. 

But  Love  is  no  such  soulless  clod  :  living,  perfected  it  shall  rise 
Transfigured  in  the  light  of  God,  and  giving  glory  to  the  skies : 
And  that  which  makes  this  life  so  sweet  shall  render  Heaven's  jo; 
complete. 


A  WAENING. 

PLACE  your  hands  in  mine,  dear, 
With  their  rose-leaf  touch  : 

If  you  heed  my  warning, 
It  will  spare  you  much. 

Ah  !  with  just  such  smiling 

Unbelieving  eyes, 
Years  ago  I  heard  it :  — 

You  shall  be  more  wise. 

You  have  one  great  treasure, 

Joy  for  all  your  life ; 
Do  not  let  it  perish 

In  one  reckless  strife. 


Do  not  venture  all,  child, 
In  one  frail,  weak  heart ; 

So,  through  any  shipwreck, 
You  may  save  a  part 


Where  your  soul  is  tempted 
Most  to  trust  your  fate, 

There,  with  double  caution, 
Linger,  fear,  and  wait. 


Measure  all  you  give,  still 
Counting  what  you  take ; 

Love  for  love,  so  placing 
Each  an  equal  stake. 


MAXHIUS. 


Treasure  lore ;  though  ready 

Still  to  live  without. 
In  your  fondest  trust,  keep 

Just  one  thread  of  doubt. 

Build  on  no  to-morrow  ; 

Love  has  but  to-day  : 
If  the  links  seem  slackening1, 

Cut  the  bond  away. 

Trust  no  prayer  nor  promise ; 

Words  are  grains  of  sand  : 
To  keep  your  heart  unbroken, 

Hold  it  in  your  hand. 

That  your  love  may  finish 

Calm  as  it  begun, 
Learn  this  lesson  better, 

Dear,  than  I  have  done. 

Years  hence,  perhaps,  this  warn- 
ing 

You  shall  give  again, 
In  just  the  self-same  words,  dear, 

And  — just  as  much  —  in  vain. 


MAXIMUS. 

MANY,    if    God    should    make 

them  kings, 
Might  not  disgrace  the  throne 

He  gave ; 

How  few  who  could  as  well  fulfil 
The  holier  office  of  a  slave! 

I  hold  him  great  who,  for  Love's 

sake, 

Can  give,  with  generous,  ear- 
nest will,  — 


117 
for   Love's 


Yet  he  who   takes 

sweet  sake, 

I  think  I  hold  more  generous 
still. 

I   prize    the    instinct    that    can 

turn 
From  vain  pretence  with  proud 

disdain ; 

Yet  more  I  prize  a  simple  heart 
Paying  credulity  with  pain. 

I  bow  before  the  noble  mind 
That  freely  some  great  wrong 

forgives ; 

Yet  nobler  is  the  one  forgiven, 
Who  bears  that  burden  well, 
and  lives. 

It  may  be  hard  to  gain,  and  still 
To    keep    a   lowly   steadfast 
heart ; 

Yet  he  who  loses  has  to  fill 
A  harder  and  a  truer  part. 

Glorious  it  is  to  wear  the  crown 
Of  a  deserved  and  pure  suc- 
cess ;  — 
He  who  knows  how  to  fail  has 

won 

A  Crown  whose  lustre  is  not 
less. 

Great  may  he  be  who  can  com- 
mand 
And  rule  with  just  and  tender 

sway ; 

Yet  is  diviner  wisdom  taught 
Better  by  him  who  can  obey. 


118 


OPTIMU8. 


Blessed  are   those  who  die  for 

God, 
And  earn  the  Martyr's  crown 

of  light ; 

Yet  he  who  lives  for  God  may  be 
A  greater  Conqueror  in  His 
sight. 


OPTIMUS. 

THERE  is  a  deep  and  subtle  snare 
Whose  sure  temptation  hardly 

fails, 
Which,  just  because  it  looks  so 

fair, 
Only  a  noble  heart  assails. 

So  all  the  more  we  need  be  strong 
Against  this  false  and  seeming 

Right ; 
Which  none  the  less  is  deadly 

wrong, 
Because   it    glitters   clothed   in 

light. 

When  duties  unfulfilled  remain, 

Or  noble  works  are  left  un- 
planned, 

Or  when  great  deeds  cry  out  in 
vain 

On  coward  heart  and  trembling 
hand, — 

Then    will    a    seeming    Angel 

speak :  — 
"  The  hours  are  fleeting  —  great 

the  need  — 


If  thou  art  strong  and  others  weak, 
Thine  be  the  effort  and  the  deed. 

"  Deaf  are  their  ears  who  ought 

to  hear; 
Idle  their  hands,  and  dull  their 

soul ; 

While  sloth,  or  ignorance,  or  fear, 
Fetters  them  with  a  blind  control. 

"  Sort   thou    the    tangled    web 

aright ; 
Take  thou  the  toil,  take  thou  the 

pain  : 

For  fear  the  hour  begin  its  flight, 
While  Right  and  Duty  plead  in 

vain." 

And  now  it  is  I  bid  thee  pause, 
Nor  let  this  Tempter  bend  thy  will; 
There  are  diviner,  truer  laws 
That  teach  a  nobler  lesson  still. 

Learn  that  each  duty  makes  its 

claim 

Upon  one  soul :  not  each  on  all. 
How,  if  God  speaks  thy  Brother's 

name, 
Dare  thou  make  answer  to  tho 

call? 

The  greater  peril  in  the  strife, 
The  less  this  evil  should  be  done ; 
For  as  in  battle,  so  in  life, 
Danger  and  honor  still  are  one. 

Arouse  him  then  :  —  this  is  thy 

part : 
Show  him  the  claim ;  point  out 

the  need ; 


TOO  LATE. 


119 


And  nerve  his  arm,  and  cheer 

his  heart ; 
Then  stand  aside,  and  say,  "  God 

speed ! " 

Smooth  thou  his  path  ere  it  is 

trod; 
Burnish  the  arms  that  he  must 

wield  ; 
And  pray,  with  all  thy  strength, 

that  God 
May  crown,  him  Victor  of  the 

field. 

And  then,  I  think,  thy  soul  shall 

feel 

A  nobler  thrill  of  true  content, 
Than  if  presumptuous,  eager  zeal 
Had  seized  a  crown  for  others 

meant. 

And  even  that  very  deed  shall 

shine 

In  mystic  sense,  divine  and  true, 
More  wholly  and  more  purely 

thine  — 
Because  it  is  another's  too. 


A  LOST   CHORD. 

SEATED  one  day  at  the  Organ, 
I  was  weary  and  ill  at  ease, 

And  my  fingers  wandered  idly 
Over  the  noisy  keys. 

I  do  not  know  what  I  was  playing, 
Or  what  I  was  dreaming  then ; 


But  I  struck  one  chord  of  music, 
Like   the   sound   of    a  great 
Amen. 

It  flooded  the  crimson  twilight, 
Like  the  close  of  an  Angel's 
Psalm, 

And  it  lay  on  my  fevered  spirit 
With  a  touch  of  infinite  calm. 

It  quieted  pain  and  sorrow, 
Like  love  overcoming  strife ; 

It  seemed  the  harmonious  echo 
From  our  discordant  life. 

It  linked  all  perplexed  meanings 
Into  one  perfect  peace, 

And  trembled  away  into  silence 
As  if  it  were  loth  to  cease. 

I  have  sought,  hut  I  seek  it  vainly, 
That  one  lost  chord  divine, 

Which  came  from  the  soul  of  the 

Organ, 
And  entered  into  mine. 

It  may  be  that  Death's  bright 
angel 

Will  speak  in  that  chord  again, 
It  may  be  that  only  in  Heaven 

I  shall  hear  that  grand  Amen. 


TOO   LATE. 

HUSH  !  speak  low ;  tread  softly ; 

Draw  the  sheet  aside  ;  — 
Yes,  she  does  look  peaceful ; 

With  that  smile  she  died. 


120 


THE  REQUITAL. 


Yet  stern  want  and  sorrow 

Even  now  you  trace 
On  the  wan,  worn  features 

Of  the  still  white  face. 

Restless,  helpless,  hopeless, 
Was  her  bitter  part ;  — 

Now  —  how  still  the  Violets 
Lie  upon  her  Heart ! 

She  who  toiled  and  labored 

For  her  daily  bread ; 
See  the  velvet  hangings 

Of  this  stately  bed. 

Yes,  they  did  forgive  her ; 

Brought  her  home  at  last ; 
Strove  to  cover  over 

Their  relentless  past. 

Ah,  they  would  have  given 
Wealth,  and  home,  and  pride, 

To  see  her  just  look  happy 
Once  before  she  died ! 

They  strove  hard  to  please  her, 
But,  when  death  is  near, 

All  you  know  is  deadened, 
Hope,  and  joy,  and  fear. 

And  besides,  one  sorrow 
Deeper  still  —  one  pain 

Was  beyond  them :  healing 
Came  to-day  —  in  vain ! 

If  she  had  but  lingered 
Just  a  few  hours  more ; 

Or  had  this  letter  reached  her 
Just  one  day  before  ! 


I  can  almost  pity 

Even  him  to-day; 
Though  he  let  this  anguish 

Eat  her  heart  away. 

Yet  she  never  blamed  him  ;  — 
One  day  you  shall  know 

How  this  sorrow  happened  ; 
It  was  long  ago. 

I  have  read  the  letter ; 

Many  a  weary  year, 
For  one  word  she  hungered,  — 

There  are  thousands  here. 

If  she  could  but  hear  it, 
Could  but  understand ; 

See,  —  I  put  the  letter 
In  her  cold  white  hand. 

Even  these  words,  so  longed  for, 

Do  not  stir  her  rest ; 
Well,  I  should  not  murmur, 

For  God  judges  best. 

She  needs  no  more  pity,  — 

But  I  mourn  his  fate, 
When  he  hears  his  letter 

Came  a  day  too  late. 


THE   REQUITAL. 

LOUD  roared  the  Tempest, 
Fast  fell  the  sleet ; 

A  little  Child  Angel 
Passed  down  the  street, 

With  trailing  pinions, 
And  weary  feet. 


RETURNED—"  MISSING." 


121 


The  moon  was  hidden  ; 

No  stars  were  bright; 
So  she  could  not  shelter 

In  heaven  that  night, 
For  the  Angels'  ladders 

Are  rays  of  light. 

She  beat  her  wings 
At  each  window-pane, 

And  pleaded  for  shelter, 
But  all  in  vain  ;  — 

"  Listen,"  they  said, 
"  To  the* pelting  rain  !  " 

She  sobbed,  as  the  laughter 
And  mirth  grew  higher, 

"  Give  me  rest  and  shelter 
Beside  your  fire, 

And  I  will  give  you 
Your  heart's  desire." 

The  dreamer  sat  watching 

His  embers  gleam, 
While  his  heart  was  floating 

Down  hope's  bright  stream 
...  So  he  wove  her  wailing 

Into  his  dream. 

The  worker  toiled  on, 
For  his  time  was  brief; 

The  mourner  was  nursing 
Her  own  pale  grief; 

They  heard  not  the  promise 
That  brought  relief. 

But  fiercer  the  Tempest 

Rose  than  before, 
When  the  Angel  paused 

At  a  humble  door, 


And  asked  for  shelter 
And  help  once  more 

A  weary  woman, 

Pale,  worn,  and  thin, 

With  the  brand  upon  her 
Of  want  and  sin, 

Heard  the  Child  Angel 
And  took  her  in. 

Took  her  in  gently, 

And  did  her  best 
To  dry  her  pinions ; 

And  made  her  rest 
With  tender  pity 

Upon  her  breast. 

When  the  eastern  morning 
Grew  bright  and  red, 

Up  the  first  sunl>eam 
The  Angel  fled ; 

Having  kissed  the  woman 
And  left  her  —  dead. 


RETURNED  —  «  MISSING." 

(FIVE    TEARS    AFTER.) 

YES,  I  was  sad  and  anxious, 
But  now,  dear,  I  am  gay ; 

I  know  that  it  is  wisest 
To  put  all  hope  away :  — 

Thank  God  that   I  have  done 

so, 
And  can  be  calm  to-day ! 


122 


IN  THE   WOOD. 


For  hope  deferred  —  you  know 

it  — 

Once  made  my  heart  so  sick : 
Now,  I  expect  no  longer; 

It  is  but  the  old  trick 
Of  hope,  that  makes  me  tremble, 
And    makes   my   heart    beat 
quick. 

All  day  I  sit  here  calmly; 

Not  as  I  did  before, 
Watching  for  one  whose  footstep 

Comes  never,  never  more.  .  .  . 
Hush  !  was  that  some  one  pass- 
ing, 

Who  paused  beside  the  door  ? 

For  years  I  hung  on  chances, 
Longing  for  just  one  word; 

At  last  I  feel  it :  —  silence 

Will  never  more  be  stirred.  .  . 

Tell  me  once  more  that  rumor 
You  fancied  you  had  heard. 

Life  has  more  things  to  dwell  on 
Than  just  one  useless  pain, 

Useless  and  past  forever ; 
But  noble  things  remain, 

And  wait  us  all :  ...  you  too, 

dear, 
Do  you  think  hope  quite  vain  ? 

All  others  have  forgotten, 
'T  is  right  I  should  forget, 

Nor  live  on  a  keen  longing 
Which     shadows     forth     re- 
gret :  .  .  . 

Are  not  the  letters  coming  ? 
The  sun  is  almost  set. 


Now  that  my  restless  legion 
Of  hopes  and  fears  is  fled, 

Reading  is  joy  and  comfort  .  .  . 
.  .  .  This  very  day  1  read, 

O,  such  a  strange  returning 
Of  one    whom    all    thought 
dead! 

Not  that  7  dream  or  fancy, 
You  know  all  that  is  past; 

Earth  has  no  hope  to  give  me, 
And  yet  —  Time  flies  so  fast 

That  all  but  the  impdssible 
Might  be  brought  back  at  last. 


IN   THE   WOOD. 

IN  the  wood  where  shadows  are 

deepest 

From  the  branches  overhead, 
Where  the  wild  wood-strawber- 
ries cluster, 

And  the  softest  moss  is  spread, 
I  met  to-day  with  a  fairy, 

And  I  followed  her  where  she 
led. 

Some  magical  words  she  uttered, 

I  alone  could  understand, 
For    the    sky   grew    bluer    and 

brighter ; 
While   there   rose   on    either 

hand 

The  cloudy  walls  of  a  palace 
That  was  built  in  Fairy-land. 


TWO    WORLDS. 


123 


And  I  stood  in   a  strange  en- 
chantment ; 

I  had  known  it  all  before : 
In  my  heart  of  hearts  was  the 

magic 
Of  days    that   will  come  no 

more, 

The  magic  of  joy  departed, 
That  Time  can  never  restore. 

That  never,  ah,  never,  never, 
Never  again  can  be  :  — 

Shall  I  tell  you  what  powerful 

fairy 
Built  up  this  palace  for  me  1 

It  was  only  a  little  white  Violet 
I  found  at  the  root  of  a  tree. 


TWO   WORLDS. 

GOD'S  world  is  bathed  in  beauty, 
God's  world  is  steeped  in  light; 

It  is  the  self-same  glory 

That  makes  the  day  so  bright, 

Which    thrills    the    earth    with 

music, 
Or  hangs  the  stars  in  night. 

Hid  in  earth's  mines  of  silver, 
Floating  on  clouds  above,  — 

Ringing  in  Autumn's  tempest, 
Murmured  by  every  dove, — 

One  thought  fills  God's  creation, 
His  own  great  name  of  Love ! 

In    God's    world    Strength    is 

lovely, 
And  so  is  Beauty  strong, 


And    Light   —   God's   glorious 
shadow  — 

To  both  great  gifts  belong ; 
And  they  all  melt  into  sweetness, 

And  fill  the  earth  with  Song. 

Above     God's      world      bends 

Heaven, 
With    day's    kiss    pure    and 

bright, 
Or  folds  her  still  more  fondly 

In  the  tender  shade  of  night ; 
And   she   casts   back   Heaven's 

sweetness, 
In  fragrant  love  and  light. 

God's  world  has  one  great  echo  ; 
Whether  calm  blue  mists  are 

curled, 

Or  lingering  dew-drops  quiver, 
Or  red  storms  are  unfurled ; 
The  same  deep  love  is  throbbing 
Through   the   grea't  heart  of 
God's  world. 

Man's  world  is  black  and  blight- 

ed, 
Steeped  through  with  self  and 

sin ; 
And  should  his  feeble  purpose 

Some  feeble  good  begin, 
The  work  is  marred  and  tainted 
By  Leprosy  within. 

Man's  world  is  bleak  and  bitter ; 

Wherever  he  has  trod 
He  spoils  the  tender  beauty 

That  blossoms  on  the  sod, 


124 


A   NEW  MOTHER. 


And  blasts  the  loving  Heaven 
Of  the  great,  good  world  of 
God. 

There  Strength  on  coward  weak- 
ness 

In  cruel  might  will  roll ; 
Beauty  and  Joy  are  cankers 

That  eat  away  the  soul ; 
And  Love  —  O  God,  avenge  it  — 

The  plague-spot  of  the  whole. 

Man's  world  is  Pain  and  Terror ; 

He  found  it  pure  and  fair, 
And  wove  in  nets  of  sorrow 

The  golden  summer  air. 
Black,  hideous,  cold,  and  dreary, 

Man's  curse,  not  God's,  is  there. 

And  yet  God's  world  is  speaking  : 
Man  will  not  hear  it  call ; 

But  listens  where  the  echoes 
Of  his  own  discords  fall, 

Then  clamors  back  to  Heaven 
That  God  has  done  it  all. 

O  God,  man's  heart  is  darkened, 
He  will  not  understand ! 

Show  him  Thy  cloud  and  fire ; 
And,   with  Thine  own  right 
hand, 

Then  lead  him  through  his  desert, 
Back  to  Thy  Holy  Land ! 


A   NEW   MOTHER. 

I  WAS  with  my  lady  when  she 

died: 
I  it  was  who  guided  her  weak  hand 


For  a  blessing  on  each  little 

head, 
Laid  her  baby  by  her  on  the 

bed, 
Heard  the  words  they  could  not 

understand. 

And    I   drew   them   round   my 

knee  that  night, 
Hushed  their  childish  glee,  and 

made  them  say 
They  would  keep  her  words 

with  loving  tears, 
They  would    not   forget   her 

dying  fears 
Lest  the  thought  of  her  should 

fade  away. 

I,  who  guessed   what   her   last 

dread  had  been, 
Made  a  promise   to    that   still, 

cold  face, 
That  her  children's  hearts,  at 

any  cost, 
Should    be  with   the    mother 

they  had  lost, 
When  a  stranger  came  to  take 

her  place. 

And  I  knew  so  much  !  for  I  had 
lived 

With  my  lady  since  her  child- 
hood :  known 
What  her  young  and  happy 

days  had  been, 

And  the  grief  no  other  eyes 
had  seen 

I  had  watched  and  sorrowed  for 
alone. 


A  NEW  MOTHER. 


125 


All !  she  once  had  such  a  happy 

smile ! 
I  had  known  how  sorely  she  was 

tried  : 
Six  short  years  before,  her  eyes 

were  bright 
As  her  little  blue-eyed  May's 

that  night, 
When    she   stood   by  her   dead 

mother's  side. 

No,  I  will  not  say  he  was  un- 
kind ; 

But  she  had  been  used  to  love 

and  praise. 
Ho   was    somewhat   grave, — 

perhaps,  in  truth, 
Could  not  weave  her  joyous, 
smiling  youth 

Into   all  his  stern  and   serious 
ways. 

She,  who  should  have  reigned  a 

blooming  flower, 
First  in  pride  and  honor,  as  in 

grace,  — 
She,  whose  will  had  once  ruled 

all  around, 
Queen  and  darling  of  us  all,  — 

she  found 
Change    indeed    in    that   cold, 

stately  place. 

Yet  she  would  not  blame  him, 

even  to  me, 
Though  she  often  sat  and  wept 

alone ; 
But  she  could  not  hide  it  near 

her  death, 


When  she  said  with  her  last 

struggling  breath, 
"  Let  my  babies  still  remain  my 
own ! " 

I  it  was  who  drew  the  sheet  aside, 
When  he   saw  his   dead  wife's 

face.     That  test 
Seemed  to  strike  right  to  his 

heart.     He  said, 
In  a  strange,  low  whisper,  to 

the  dead, 

"  God  knows,  love,  I  did  it  for 
the  best ! " 

And  he  wept  —  O  yes,  I  will  be 

just  — 
When  I  brought  the  children  to 

him  there, 
Wondering    sorrow   in   their 

baby  eyes ; 
And  he  soothed  them  with  his 

fond  replies, 
Bidding  me  give  double  love  and 

care. 

Ah,  I  loved  them  well  for  her 

dear  sake : 

Little  Arthur,  with  his  serious  air; 
May,  with   all   her   mother's 

1  pretty  ways, 
Blushing,  and  at  any  word  of 

praise 

Shaking  out  her  sunny  golden 
hair. 

And  the  little  one  of  all  —  poor 
child ! 

She  had  cost  that  dear  and  pre- 
cious life. 


126 


A  NEW  MOTHER. 


Once  Sir  Arthur  spoke   my 
lady's  name, 

When  the  baby's  gloomy  chris- 
tening came,  • 

And  he  called  her  "  Olga  —  like 
my  wife ! " 

Save  that  time,  he  never  spoke 

of  her : 
He  grew  graver,  sterner,  every 

day ; 
And  the  children  felt  it,  for 

they  dropped 
Low   their  voices,   and  their 

laughter  stopped, 
While  he  stood  and  watched  them 

at  their  play. 

No,  he  never  named  their  moth- 
er's name. 

But  I  told  them  of  her :  told 

them  all 
She  had  been  ;  so  gentle,  good, 

and  bright ; 

And  I  always  took  them  every 
night 

Where  her  picture  hung  in  the 
great  hall. 

There  she  stood :  white  daisies 

in  her  hand, 
And  her  red  lips  parted  as  to 

speak 
With  a  smile ;  the  blue  and 

sunny  air 
Seemed    to   stir  her   floating 

golden  hair, 
And  to  bring  a  faint  blush  on 

her  cheek. 


Well,  so  time  passed  on  ;  a  year 

was  gone, 
And  Sir  Arthur  had  been  much 

away. 
Then  the  news  came !    I  shed 

many  tears 
When  I  saw  the  truth  of  all 

my  fears 
Eise   before  me  on   that  bitter 

day. 

Any  one  but  her  I  could  have 

borne ! 
But  my  lady  loved  her  as  her 

friend. 
Through  their  childhood  and 

their  early  youth, 
How  she  used  to  count  upon 

the  truth 
Of  this    friendship    that   would 

never  end ! 


Older,  graver  than  my  lady  was, 
Whose  young,   gentle  heart  on 

her  relied, 
She  would  give  advice,   and 

praise,  and  blame, 
And  my  lady  leant  on  Mar- 
garet's name, 

As  her  dearest  comfort,  help,  and 
guide. 

I   had  never  liked   her,   and  I 

think 
That  my  lady  grew  to  doubt  her 

too, 
Since  her  marriage;  for  she 

named  her  less, 


A  NEW  MOTHER. 


127 


Never  saw  her,  and  I  used  to 
guess 
some  s 
knew. 


guess 
At  some  secret  wrong  I  never 


That  might  be  or  not.    But  now, 

to  hear 
She  would  come  and  reign  here 

in  her  stead, 
With  the  pomp  and  splendor 

of  a  bride  : 
Would   no  thought   reproach 

her  in  her  pride 
With  the  silent  memory  of  the 

dead? 


So,  the  day  came,  and  the  bells 
rang  out, 

And  I  laid  the  children's  black 

aside; 

And  I  held  each  little  trem- 
bling hand, 

As  I  strove  to  make  them  un- 
derstand 

They  must  greet  their  father's 
new-made  bride. 


Ah,  Sir  Arthur  might  look  grave 

and  stern, 
And  liis  lady's  eyes  might  well 

grow  dim, 
When  the  children  shrank  in 

fear  away,  — 
Little  Arthur  hid  his  face,  and 

May 
Would    not  raise  her  eyes,  or 

speak  to  him. 


When    Sir   Arthur   bade   them 
greet  their  "  mother," 

I  was  forced  to  chide,  yet  proud 

to  hear 

How  my  little  loving  May  re- 
plied, 

With  her  mother's  pretty  air 
of  pride,  — 

"  Our  dear  mother  has  been  dead 
a  year ! " 


Ah,  the  lady's  tears  might  well 

fall  fast, 
As  she  kissed  them,  and  then 

turned  away. 
She  might  strive  to  smile  or 

to  forget, 
But  I  think  some  shadow  of 

regret 
Must  have  risen  to  blight  her 

wedding-day. 


She  had  some  strange  touch  of 

self-reproach ; 
For  she  used  to  linger  day  by 

day, 
By  the  nursery  door,  or  garden 

gate, 
With  a  sad,  calm,  wistful  look, 

and  wait 
Watching  the  three  children  at 

their  play. 


But  they  always  shrank   away 

from  her 
When  she  strove  to  comfort  their 

alarms, 


128 


A  NEW  MOTHER. 


And  their  grave,  cold  silence 

to  beguile : 

Even  little  Olga's  baby-smile 
Quivered  into  tears  when  in  her- 


I  could  never  chide  them  :  for  I 

saw 
How  their  mother's  memory  grew 

more  deep 
In  their  hearts.    Each  night  I 

had  to  tell 
Stories  of  her  whom  I  loved 

so  well 
When  a  child,  to  send  them  off 

to  sleep. 

But  Sir  Arthur  —  O,  this  was 

too  hard  !  — 
He,  who  had  been  always  stern 

and  sad 
In  my  lady's  time,  seemed  to 

rejoice 
Each  day  more ;  and  I  could 

hear  his  voice 
Even,    sounding    younger    and 

more  glad. 

He  might  perhaps  have  blamed 
them,  but  his  wife 

Never  failed  to  take  the  children's 

part : 
She  would  stay  him  with  her 

pleading  tone, 

Saying  she  would  strive,  and 
strive  alone, 

Till  she  gained  each  little  way- 
ward heart. 


And    she    strove    indeed,    and 
seemed  to  be 

Always  waiting   for  their  love, 

in  vain  ; 
Yet,  when  May  had  most  her 

mother's  look, 

Then  the  lady's  calm,  cold  ac- 
cents shook 

With  some  memory  of  reproach- 
ful pain. 


Little  May  would  never  call  her 
mother  : 

So,  one  day,  the  lady,  bending 

low, 
Kissed  her  golden  curls,  and 

softly  said, 

"  Sweet  one,  call  me  Marga- 
ret, instead,  — 

Your  dear  mother  used  to  call 
me  so." 


She  was  gentle,  kind,  and   pa- 
tient too, 

Yet  in  vain :   the  children  held 

apart. 
Ah,     their    mother's    gentle 

memory  dwelt 

Near  them,  and  her  little  or- 
phans felt 

She    had   the   first  claim   upor 
their  heart. 


So  three  years  passed  ;  then  the 

war  broke  out ; 
And  a  rumor  seemed  to  spread 

and  rise ; 


A  NEW  MOTHER. 


129 


First  we  guessed  what  sorrow 

must  befall, 
Then  all  doubt  fled,  for  we 

read  it  all 

In  the  depths  of  her  despairing 
eyes. 

Yes ;  Sir  Arthur  had  been  called 

away 
To  that  scene  of  slaughter,  fear, 

and  strife,  — 
Now  he  seemed  to  know  with 

double  pain 
The  cold,  bitter  gulf  that  must 

remain 
To  divide  his  children  from  his 

wife. 

Nearer  came  the  day  he  was  to 

sail, 
Deeper   grew   the   coming   woe 

and  fear, 
When,  one  night,  the  children 

at  my  knee 
Knelt   to   say   their    evening 

prayer  to  me, 
I  looked  np  and  saw  Sir  Arthur 

near. 

There  they   knelt   with    folded 

hands,  and  said 
Low,  soft  words  in  stammering 

accents  sweet ; 
In   the   firelight  shone   their 

golden  hair 
And  white  robes  :  my  darlings 

looked  so  fair, 
With  their  little  bare  and  rosy 

feet! 


There  he  waited   till  their  low 

"  Amen  !  " 
Stopped  the  rosy  lips  raised  for 

"  Good  night ! "  — 
Drew  them  with  a  fond  clasp, 

close  and  near, 
As  he  bade  them  stay  with 

him,  and  hear 
Something  that  would  make  his 

heart  more  light. 

Little  Olga  crept  into  his  arms  ; 
Arthur  leant  upon  his  shoulder ; 

May 
Knelt  beside  him,   with   her 

earnest  eyes 

Lifted  up  in  patient,  calm  sur- 
prise, — 

I  can  almost  hear  his  words  to- 
day. 

"  Years  ago,  my  children,  years 

ago, 
When  your  mother  was  a  child, 

she  came 
From    her    Northern    home, 

and  here  she  met 
Love  for  love,  and  comfort  for 

regret, 
In  one  early  friend,  —  you  know 

her  name. 


"  And  this  friend  —  a  few  years 

older  —  gave 
Such  fond  care,  such  love,  that 

day  by  day 
The  new  home  grew  happy. 

joy  complete, 


130 


A  NEW  MOTHER. 


Studies  easier,  and  play  more 

sweet, 

"While  all  childish  sorrows  passed 
away. 


"And    your    mother — fragile, 
like  my  May  — 

Leant  on  this  deep  love,  —  nor 

leant  in  vain. 

For  this  friend  (strong,  gener- 
ous, noble  heart!) 
Gave  the  sweet,  and  took  the 
bitter  part,  — 

Brought  her  all  the  joy,  and  kept 
the  pain. 


"  Years  passed  on,  and  then  I 
saw  them  first : 

It  was  hard  to  say  which  was 

most  fair, 
Your   sweet   mother's  bright 

and  blushing  face, 
Or  the  graver  Margaret's  state- 
ly grace ; 

Golden  locks,  or  braided  raven 
hair. 


"  Then    it      happened,     by     a 

strange,  sad  fate, 
One  thought  entered  into  each 

young  soul  : 
Joy  for  one  —  if  for  the  other 

pain ; 
Loss  for  one  —  if  for  the  other 

gain  : 
One  must  lose,  and  one  possess 

the  whole. 


"  And  so  this —  this  —  what  they 

cared  for  —  came 
And  belonged  to  Margaret :  was 

her  own. 
But  she  laid  the  gift  aside,  to 

take 
Pain    and    sorrow   for    your 

mother's  sake, 
And   none  knew  it  but  herself 

alone. 


"  Then  she  travelled  far  away, 
and  none 

The  strange  mystery  of  her  ab- 
sence knew. 
Margaret's  secret  thought  Avas 

never  told : 

Even    your   mother    thought 
her  changed  and  cold, 

And  for  many  years  I  thought 
so  too. 


"  She  was  gone ;  and  then  your 

mother  took 
That  poor  gift  which  Margaret 

laid  aside : 
Flower,   or   toy,   or    trinket, 

matters  not : 
What   it  was   had   better  be 

forgot  .  .  . 
It  was  just  then  she  became  my 

bride. 


"  Now,  I  think  May  knows  the 

hope  I  have. 
Arthur,  darling,  can  you  guess 

the  rest  ? 


GIVE  PLACE. 


131 


Even  my  little  Olga   under- 
stands 

Great   gifts  can  be  given  by 

little  hands, 

Since  of  all  gifts  Love  is  still  the 
best. 

"  Margaret  is  my  dear  and  hon- 
ored wife, 
And   I  hold   her  so.     But  she 

can  claim 
From  your  hearts,  dear  ones, 

a  loving  debt 

I  can  neither  pay,  nor  yet  for- 
get : 
You  can  give  it  in  your  mother's 


"  Earth  spoils  even   Love,  and 

here  a  shade 
On  the  purest,  noblest  heart  may 

fall: 
Now  your   mother  dwells  in 

perfect  light, 
She  will   bless  us,  I  believe, 

to-night,  — 
She  is  happy  now,  and  she  knows 

all." 

Next  day  was  farewell,  —  a  day 

of  tears  ; 

Yet  Sir  Arthur,  as  he  rode  away, 
And  turned    back  to  see  his 

lady  stand 
With  the  children  clinging  to 

her  hand, 

Looked   as  if  it  were  a  happy 
day. 


Ah,  they  loved  her  soon  !     The 

little  one 

Crept  into  her  arms  as  to  a  nest ; 
Arthur  always  with  her  now ; 

and  May 
Growing  nearer  to  her  every 

day :  — 

—  Well,  I  loved  my  own  dear 
lady  best. 


GIVE   PLACE. 

STARRY  Crowns  of  Heaven 

Set  in  azure  night ! 
Linger  yet  a  little 

Ere  you  hide  your  light :  — 

—  Nay;  let  Starlight  fade 
away, 

Heralding  the  day ! 

Snow-flakes  pure  and  spotless, 

Still,  O,  still  remain, 
Binding  dreary  winter, 

In  your  silver  chain  :  — 

—  Nay ;  but  melt  at  once 
and  bring 

Radiant  sunny  Spring! 

Blossoms,  gentle  blossoms, 

Do  not  wither  yet ; 
Still  for  you  the  sun  shines, 

Still  the  dews  are  wet :  — 

—  Nay ;  but  fade  and  wither 
fast, 

Fruit  must  come  at  last ! 


132 


M7   WILL. 


Joy,  so  true  and  tender, 
Dare  you  not  abide  ? 
Will  you  spread  your  pinions, 
Must  you  leave  our  side  ? 
—  Nay ;  an   Angel's  shin- 
ing grace 
Waits  to  fill  your  place ! 


MY  WILL. 

SINCE  I  have  no  lands  or  houses, 

And  no  hoarded  golden  store, 

What  can  I  leave  those  who  love 

me 
When    they  see  my  face  no 

more  ? 

Do  not  smile  ;  I  am  not  jesting, 
Though  my  words  sound  gay 

and  light, 

Listen  to  me,  dearest  Alice, 
I  will  make  my  Will  to-night.t 

First    for    Mabel,  —  who    will 

never 

Let  the  dust  of  future  years 
Dim  the  thought  of  me,  but  keep 

it 
Brighter  still :    perhaps  with 

tears. 
In  whose  eyes,  whate'er  I  glance 

at, 
Touch,  or  praise,  will  always 

shine, 
Through   a  strange  and   sacred 

radiance, 

By   Love's    Charter,   wholly 
mine; 


She  will  never  lend  to  others 
Slenderest  link  of  thought  I 

claim, 

I  will,  therefore,  to  her  keeping 
Leave   my  memory  and    my 
name. 

Bertha  will  do  truer  service 
To    her    kind    than    I    have 

done, 

So  I  leave  to  her  young  spirit  . 

The  long  Work  I  have  begun. 

Well !    the  threads  are  tangled, 

broken, 

And  the  colors  do  not  blend, 
She  will  bend  her  earnest  striving 

Both  to  finish  and  amend : 
And,  when  it  is  all  completed, 
Strong  with  care  and  rich  with 

skill, 
Just   because   my  hands   began 

it, 
She  will  love  it  better  still. 

Ruth    shall    have    my    dearest 

token, 

The  one  link  I  dread  to  break, 
The  one  duty  that  I  live  for, 
She,   when   I  am  gone,   will 

take. 

Sacred  is  the  trust  I  leave  her, 
Needing  patience,  prayer,  and 

tears ; 
I  have  striven  to  fulfil  it, 

As    she   knows,    these   many 

years. 
Sometimes  hopeless,   faint,  and 

weary, 
Yet  a  blessing  shall  remain 


A   CHANT. 


133 


With  the   task,  and  Euth   will 

prize  it, 
For  my  many  hours  of  pain. 

What   must   I   leave   you,    my 

Alice  ? 

Nothing,  Love,  to  do  or  hear, 
Nothing  that  can  dim  your  blue 

eyes 
With  the   slightest   cloud   of 

care. 

I  will  leave  my  heart  to  love  you, 
With  the  tender  faith  of  old  ; 
Still  to  comfort,  warm,  and  light 

you, 
Should  your  life  grow  dark  or 

cold. 
No  one  else,  my  child,  can  claim 

it ; 
Though  you  find  old  scars  of 

pain, 

They  were  only  wound^,  my  dar- 
ling, 

There    is   not,   I   trust,   one 
stain. 

Are  my  gifts  indeed  so  worthless 

Now  the  slender  sum  is  told? 

Well,  I  know  not :    years  may 

bless  them 

With  a  nobler  price  than  gold. 
Am     I     poor  ?     ah     no,    most 

wealthy, 
Not  in   these  poor  gifts  you 

take, 
But  in  the  true  hearts  that  tell 

me 

You  will  keep  them,  for  my 
sake. 


KING   AND   SLAVE. 

IF  in  my  soul,  dear, 

An  omen  should  dwell, 
Bidding  me  pause,  ere 

I  love  thec  too  well ; 
If  the  whole  circle 

Of  noble  and  wise, 
With  stern  forebodings, 

Between  us  should  rise ;  — 

I  will  tell  them,  dear, 

That  Love  reigns  —  a  King, 
Where  storms  cannot  reach  him, 

And  words  cannot  sting ; 
He  counts  it  dishonor 

His  faith  to  recall ; 
He  trusts ;  —  and  forever 

He  gives  —  and  gives  all ! 

I  will  tell  thee,  dear, 

That  Love  is  —  a  Slave, 
Who  dreads  thought  of  freedom, 

As  life  dreads  the  grave ; 
And  if  doubt  or  peril 

Of  change  there  may  be, 
Such  fear  would  but  drive  him 

Still  nearer  to  thee ! 


A    CHANT. 

"  Benedictus  gui  venit  in  nomine  Do- 
mini.'1'' 


WHO  is  the  Angel  that  cometh1? 

Life! 
Let  us   not   question   what   he 

brings, 
Peace  or  Strife ; 


134 


A   CHANT. 


Under  the  shade  of  his  mighty 

wings, 
One  by  one, 
Are  his  secrets  told  ; 

One  by  one, 
Lit  by  the  rays  of  each  morning 

sun, 
Shall  a  new  flower  its  petals 

unfold, 
With  the  mystery  hid  in  its 

heart  of  gold. 
We  will  arise  and  go   forth  to 

greet  him, 

Singly,  gladly,  with  one  ac- 
cord ;  — 
"  Blessed  is  he  that  cometh 

In  the  name  of  the  Lord !  " 


Who  is  the  Angel  that  cometh  1 

Joy ! 
Look  at  his  glittering   rainbow 

wings,  — 
No  alloy 
Lies    in    the    radiant    gifts    he 

brings  ; 

Tender  and  sweet, 
He  is  come  to-day, 

Tender  and  sweet : 
While   chains   of   love    on    his 

silver  feet 
Will  hold  him  in  lingering  fond 

delay. 
But  greet  him  quickly,  he  will 

not  stay, 
Soon    he    will    leave    us ;    but 

though  for  others 
All  his  brightest  treasures  are 
stored, — 


'  Blessed  is  he  that  cometh 

In  the  name  of  the  Lord  !  " 


Who  is  the  Angel  that  cometh  1 

Pain! 
Let  us  arise  and  go  forth  to  greet 

him  ; 

Not  in  vain 
Is  the  summons  come  for  us  to 

meet  him ; 
He  will  stay, 
And  darken  our  sun; 

He  will  stay 

A  desolate  night,  a  weary  day. 
Since    in    that    shadow    our 

work  is  done, 
And     in    that    shadow    our 

crowns  are  won, 
Let  us  say  still,  while  his  bitter 

chalice 
Slowly    into    our    hearts    is 

poured,  — 
"  Blessed  is  he  that  cometh 

In  the  name  of  the  Lord  !  " 


Who  is  the  Angel  that  cometh  ? 

Death  ! 
But  do  not  shudder  and  do  not 

fear  ; 

Hold  your  breath, 
For  a  kingly  presence  is  drawing 

near, 

Cold  and  bright 

Is  his  flashing  steel, 

Cold  and  bright 


Jt£ST. 


135 


The   smile   that   comes    like    a 

starry  light 
To  calm  the  terror  and  grief 

we  feel ; 
He  comes  to  help  and  to  save 

and  heal : 
Then  let  us,  baring  our  hearts 

and  kneeling, 

Sing,  while  we  wait  this  An- 
gel's sword,  — 
"  Blessed  is  he  that  cometh 

In  the  name  of  the  Lord  !  " 


DREAM-LIFE. 

LISTEX,  friend,  and  I  will  tell 

you 
Why   I   sometimes   seem    so 

glad, 

Then,  without  a  reason,  chang- 
ing, 

Soon  become   so   grave   and 
sad. 


Half  my  life  I  live  a  beggar, 
Ragged,  helpless,  and  alone ; 

But  the  other  half  a  monarch, 
With  my  courtiers  round  my 
throne. 

Half  my  life  is  full  of  sorrow, 
Half  of  joy,   still   fresh   and 
new; 

One  of  these  lives  is  a  fancy, 
But  the  other  one  is  true. 


While  I  live  and  feast  on  glad- 
ness, 

Still  I  feel  the  thought  remain, 
This  must  soon   end,  —  nearer, 

nearer, 

Comes   the   life  of  grief  and 
pain. 

While  I  live  a  wretched  beggar, 
One  bright  hope  my  lot  can, 

cheer ; 
Soon,  soon  thou  shalt  have  thy 

kingdom, 

Brighter  hours   are   drawing 
near. 

So  you  see  my  life  is  twofold, 
Half  a  pleasure,  half  a  grief; 

Thus  all  joy  is  somewhat  tem- 
pered, 
And  all  sorrow  finds  relief. 

Which,  you  ask  me,  is  the  real  life, 
Which  the  dream,  —  the  joy, 
or  woe "? 

Hush,  friend  !  it  is  little  matter, 
And,  indeed  —  I  never  know. 


REST. 

SPREAD,  spread  thy  silver  wings, 

O  Dove ! 
And  seek  for  rest  by  land  and 

sea, 

And  bring  the  tidings  back  to  me 
For  thee  and  me  and  those  I 

love. 


136 


Look  how  my  Dove  soars 
far  away ; 

Go  with  her,  heart  of  mine, 
I  pray ; 

Go  where  her  fluttering  silver 
pinions 

Follow  the  track  of  the  crim- 
son day. 

Is  rest  where  cloudlets   slowly 

creep, 
And   sobbing  winds    forget   to 

grieve, 

And  quiet  waters  gently  heave, 
As  if  they  rocked   the   ship  to 

sleep  ? 
Ah  no !  that  southern  vapor 

white 
Will  bring  a  tempest  ere  the 

night, 
And    thunder    through     the 

quiet  heaven, 

Lashing  the  sea  in  its  angry 
might. 

The  battle-field  lies  still  and  cold, 
While  stars  that  watch  in  silent 

light 

Gleam  here  and  there  on  weap- 
ons bright, 
In     weary    sleepers'     slackened 

hold; 
Nay,  though  they  dream  of  no 

alarm, 
One  bugle  sound  will  stir  that 

calm, 
And  all  the  strength  of  two 

great  nations, 

Eager  for  battle,  will  rise  and 
arm. 


Pause  where  the  Pilgrims'  day  is 

done, 
Where  scrip  and  staff  aside  are 

laid, 

And,  resting  in  the  silent  shade, 
They  watch  the  slowly  sinking 

sun. 
Ah  no  !  that  worn  and  weary 

band 
Must  journey  long  before  they 

stand, 
With  bleeding  feet,  and  hearts 

rejoicing, 

Kissing  the  dust  of  the  Holy 
Land. 


Then  find  a  soul  who  meets  at 

last 

A  noble  prize  but  hard  to  gain, 
Or  joy  long  pleaded  for  in  vain, 
Now  sweeter  for  a  bitter  past. 
Ah  no  !  for  Time  can  rob  her 

yet, 

And  even  should  cruel  Time 

forget, 
Then  Death  will  come,  and, 

unrelenting, 
Brand  her  with  sorrowful  long 

regret. 

Seek  farther,  farther  yet,  0  Dove ! 
Beyond    the   Land,  beyond  the 

Sea, 
There  shall  be  rest  for  thee  and 

me, 
For  thee  and   me  and   those  I 

love. 

I  heard  a  promise  gently  fall, 
I  heard  a  far-off  Shepherd  call 


THE   TYRANT  AND   THE   CAPTIVE. 


137 


The  weary  and  the   broken- 
hearted, 
Promising  rest  unto  each  and 

•Il- 
ls is  not  marred  by  outward 

strife, 

It  is  not  lost  in  cairn  repose, 
It  heedeth  neither  joys  nor  woes, 
Is  not  disturbed  by  death  or  life; 
Through,  and    beyond  them, 

lies  our  Rest : 
Then    cease,    O    Heart,   thy 

longing  quest ! 

And  thou,  my  Dove,  with  sil- 
ver pinions 

Flutter    again    to   thy  quiet 
nest! 


THE  TYRANT  AND  THE 
CAPTIVE. 

IT  was  midnight  when  I  listened, 
And    I    heard    two    Voices 

speak ; 
One  was  harsh,  and  stern,  and 

cruel, 

And  the  other  soft  and  weak  : 
Yet  I  saw  no  Vision  enter, 

And  I  heard  no  steps  depart, 
Of  this    Tyrant   and  his    Cap- 
tive, .  .  . 
Fate  it  might  be  and  a  Heart. 

Thus  the  stern  Voice  spake  in 

triumph  :  — 
"  I  have  shut  your  life  away 


From  the  radiant  world  of  na- 
ture, 

And  the  perfumed  light  of  day. 
You,  who  loved    to  steep  your 

spirit 

In  the  charm  of  Earth's  de- 
light, 

See  no  glory  of  the  daytime, 
And    no    sweetness    of    the 
night." 

But    the   soft   Voice    answered 

calmly :  — 
"  Nay,  for  when   the   March 

winds  bring 
Just  a  whisper  to  my  window, 

I  can  dream  the  rest  of  Spring; 
Atid  to-day  I  saw  a  swallow 

Flitting  past  my  prison  bars, 
And  my  cell  has  just  one  corner 
Whence   at   night   I  see   the 
stars." 

But  its  bitter  taunt  repeating, 

Cried    the    harsh    Voice :  — 

"  Where  are  they, 
All  the  friends  of  former  hours. 

Who  forget  your  name  to-day  ? 
All  the  links  of  love  are  shattered, 

Which  you  thought  so  strong 

before  ; 
And  your  very  heart  is  lonely, 

And    alone    since    loved    no 


But  the  low  Voice  spoke  still 
lower :  — 

"Nay,  I  know  the  golden  chain 
Of  my  love  is  purer,  scronger, 

For  the  cruel  fire  of  pain  : 


138 


TIIE  CARVERS  LESSON. 


They  remember  me  no  longer, 
But  I,  grieving  here  alone, 

Bind  their  suuls  to  me  forever 
By  the  love  within  my  own." 

But  the  Voice  cried  :  —  "  Once 
remember 

You  devoted  soul  and  mind 
To  the  welfare  of  your  brethren, 

And  the  service  of  your  kind. 
Now,  what  sorrow  can  you  com- 
fort ? 

You,  who  lie  in  helpless  pain, 
With  an  impotent  compassion 

Fretting  out  your  life  in  vain." 

"  Nay  "  ;   and   then  the   gentle 

answer  ' 

Rose  more  loud,  and  full,  and 

clear : 

"For  the  sake  of  all  my  brethren 

I  thank  God  that  I  am  here ! 

Poor   had   been  my  Life's  best 

efforts, 
Now  I  waste  no    thought  or 

breath, — 

For  the  prayer  of  those  who  suf- 
fer 

Has  the  strength  of  Love  and 
Death." 


THE    CARVER'S   LESSON. 

TRUST  me,  no  mere  skill  of  sub- 
tle tracery, 

No  mere  practice  of  a  dexter- 
ous hand, 


Will    suffice,  without  a   hidden 

spirit, 

That  we  may,  or  may  not, 
understand. 

And  those  quaint  old  fragments 

that  are  left  us 
Have  their  power  in  this,  — 

the  Carver  brought 
Earnest  care,  and   reverent  pa- 
tience, only 

Worthily  to  clothe  some  noble 
thought. 

Shut  then  in  the  petals  of  the 

flowers, 
Round   the  stems  of  all   the 

lilies  twine, 
Hide    beneath    each    bird's   or 

angel's  pinion, 

Some  wise  meaning  or  some 
thought  divine. 

Place  in  stony  hands  that  pray 

forever 
Tender  words  of  peace,  and 

strive  to  wind 
Round    the    leafy   scrolls    and 

fretted  niches 

Some  true,  loving  message  to 
your  kind. 

Some  will  praise,  some  blame, 

and,  scon  forgetting, 
Come  and  go,  nor  even  pause 

to  gaze ; 
Only  now  and  then   a   passing 

stranger 

Just  may  loiter  with  a  word 
of  praise. 


THREE  ROSES. 


139 


Eut    I    think,  when  years  have 

floated  onward, 
And    the  stone    is  gray,  and 

dim,  and  old, 
Ind    the    hand    forgotten    that 

has  carved  it, 

And  the  heart  that  dreamt  it 
still  and  cold ; 

There  may   come    some   weary 

soul,  o'erladen 
With   perplexed    struggle   in 

his  brain, 
Or,  it  may  be,  fretted  with  life's 

turmoil, 

Or  made  sore  with  some  per- 
petual pain. 

Then,  I  think  those  stony  hands 

will  open, 

And  the  gentle  lilies  overflow, 
With  the  blessing  and  the  lov- 
ing token 

That    you    hid   there    many 
years  ago. 

And   the   tendrils    will    unroll, 

and  teach  him 
How  to  solve  the  problem  of 

his  pain  ; 
And    the    birds'     and    angels' 

wings  shake  downward 
On    his   heart    a    sweet    and 
tender  rain. 

While  he  marvels  at  his  fancy, 

reading 

Meaning  in    that  quaint  and 
ancient  scroll, 


Little  guessing  that  the   loving 

Carver 

Left  a  message  for  his  weary 
soul. 


THREE   ROSES. 

JCST  when  the  red  June  Roses 
blow 

She  gave  me  one,  —  a  year  ago. 

A    Rose  whose  crimson  breath 
revealed 

The  secret   that   its  heart   con- 
cealed, 

Anfl  whose  half-shy,  half-tender 
grace 

Blushed  back  upon  the  giver's 

face. 

A  year  ago  —  a  year  ago  — 
To  hope  was  not  to  know. 

Just  when  the  red  June  Roses 

blow 
I   plucked   her  one,  —  a  month 

ago : 

Its  half-blown  crimson  to  eclipse, 
I  laid  it  on  her  smiling  lips  ; 
The  balmy  fragrance  of  the  south 
Drew  sweetness  from  her  sweet- 
er mouth. 
Swiftly     do     golden     hours 

creep,  — 
To  hold  is  not  to  keep. 

The  red  June  Roses  now  are 

past, 
This  very  day  I  broke  the  last,  — 


140 


MY  PICTURE  GALLERY. 


And  now  its  perfumed  breath  is 
hid, 

With  her,  beneath  a  coffin-lid  ; 

There  will  its  petals  fall  apart, 

And  wither  on  her  icy  heart :  — 
At  three  red  Roses'  cost 
My  world  was  gained  and  lost. 


MY    PICTURE    GALLERY. 


You  write  and  think  of  me,  my 

friend,  with  pity ; 
While   you    are  basking  in  the 

light  of  Rome, 
Shut  up  within  the  heart  of  this 

great  city, 
Too  busy  and  too  poor  to  leave 

my  home. 


You  think  my  life  debarred  all 

rest  or  pleasure, 
Chained    all    day  to  my  ledger 

and  my  pen ; 
Too  sickly  even  to  use  my  little 

leisure 
To  bear  me  from  the  strife  and 

din  of  men. 


Well,  it   is  true ;  yet,  now  the 

days  are  longer, 
At  sunset  I  can  lay  my  writing 

down, 


And  slowly  crawl  (summer  has 

made  me  stronger) 
Just  to  the  nearest  outskirt  of  the 

town. 


There  a  wide  Common,  black- 
ened though  and  dreary 

With  factory  smoke,  spreads 
outward  to  the  West  ; 

I  lie  down  on  the  parchcd-up 
grass,  if  weary, 

Or  lean  against  a  broken  wall 
to  rest. 


So    might    a  King,  turning    to 

Art's  rich  treasure, 
At  evening,  when  the  cares  of 

state  were  done, 
Enter  his  royal  gallery,  drinking 

pleasure 
Slowly  from  each  great  picture, 

one  by  one. 


Towards  the    West  I    turn  my 

weary  spirit, 
And   watch   my   pictures  :   one 

each  night  is  mine. 
Earth  and  my  soul,  sick  of  day's 

toil,  inherit 
A    portion    of    that    luminous 

peace  divine. 


There   I   have   seen  a   sunset's 

crimson  glory, 
Burn  as  if  earth  were  one  great 

Altar's  blaze; 


MY  PICTURE  GALLERY. 


141 


Or,  like  the  closing  of  a  piteous 

story, 
Light  up  the  misty  world  with 

dying  rays. 

VIII. 

There   I  have  seen   the  clouds, 

in  pomp  and  splendor, 
Their  gold  and  purple  banners 

all  unfurl; 
There    I    have    watched    colors, 

more  faint  and  tender 
Than    pure    and    delicate    tints 

upon  a  pearl. 


Skies  strewn  with  roses  fading, 
fading  slowly, 

While  one  star  tremblingwatched 
the  daylight  die ; 

Or  deep  in  gloom  a  sunset,  hid- 
den wholly, 

Save  through  gold  rents  torn  in 
a  violet  sky. 


Or  parted  clouds,  as  if  asunder 
riven 

By  some  great  angel,  and  be- 
yond a  space 

Of  far-otf  tranquil  light;  the  gates 
of  Heaven 

Will  lead  as  grandly  to  as  calm 
a  place. 


Or  stern   dark  walls  of  cloudy 

mountain  ranges 
Hid  all  the  wonders  that  we  knew 

must  be ; 


While,  far  on  high,  some  little 
white  clouds'  changes 

Revealed  the  glory  they  alone 
could  see. 


Or  in  wild  wrath  the  affrighted 
clouds  lay  shattered, 

Like  treasures  of  the  lost  Hes- 
perides, 

All  in  a  wealth  of  ruined  splen- 
dor scattered, 

Save  one  strange  light  on  distant 
silver  seas. 


What  land  or  time  can  claim  the 

Master  Painter, 
Whose  art  could  teach  him  half 

such  gorgeous  dyes  ? 
Or  skill  so  rare,  but  purer  hues 

and  fainter 
Melt  every  evening  in  my  western 

skies. 


So  there  I  wait,  until  the  shade 

has  lengthened, 
And  night's  blue  misty  curtain 

floated  down ; 
Then,  with  my  heart  calmed,  and 

my  spirit  strengthened, 
I  crawl  once  more  back  to  the 

sultry  town. 


What  Monarch,  then,  has  nobler 

recreations 
Than  mine  ?    Or  where  the  great 

and  classic  Land 


142 


SENT  TO  HEAVEN. 


Whose  wealth  of  Art  delights  the 

gathered  nations 
That  owns  a  Picture  Gallery  half 

as  grand  ? 


SENT   TO   HEAVEN. 

I  HAD  a  Message  to  send  her, 
To  her  whom  my  soul  loved 

best; 

But  I  had  my  task  to  finish, 
And  she  was  gone  home  to 
rest. 

To  rest  in  the  far  bright  heaven : 

O,  so  far  away  from  here, 
It  was  vain  to  speak  to  my  dar- 
ling, 

For   I   knew   she   could    not 
hear ! 

I  had  a  message  to  send  her, 
So    tender,    and    true,    and 
sweet, 

I  longed  for  an  Angel  to  bear  it, 
And  lay  it  down  at  her  feet. 

I  placed  it,  one  summer  evening, 
On  a  Cloudlet's  fleecy  breast ; 

But  it  faded  in  golden  splendor, 
And  died  in  the  crimson  west. 

I  gave  it  the  Lark,  next  morning, 
And   I  watched   it  soar  and 
soar ; 


But  its  pinions  grew  faint  and 

weary, 

And  it  fluttered  to  earth  once 
more. 

To  the  heart  of  a  Rose  I  told  it ; 
And  the  perfume,  sweet  and 

rare, 
Growing  faint  on  the  blue  bright 

ether, 
Was  lost  in  the  balmy  air. 

I  laid  it  upon  a  Censer, 
And  I  saw  the  incense  rise ; 

But  its  clouds  of  rolling  silver 
Could  not  reach  the  far  blue 
skies. 

I  cried,  in  my  passionate  long. 

ing:  — 

"  Has    the    earth   no   Angel- 
friend 

Who  will  carry  my  love  the  mes- 
sage 

That    my    heart    desires    to 
send  1 " 

Then  I  heard  a  strain  of  music, 
So  mighty,  so  pure,  so  clear, 

That  my  very  sorrow  was  silent, 
And  my  heart  stood  still  to 
hear. 

And  I  felt,   in  my  soul's  deep 

yearning, 

At  last  the  sure  answer  stir:  — 
"  The    music    will    go    up    to 

Heaven, 
And  carry  my  thought  to  her." 


NEVER  AGAIN. 


143 


It  rose  in  harmonious  rushing 
Of  mingled  voices  and  strings, 

And  I  tenderly  laid  my  message 
On    the     Music's     outspread 
wings. 

I  heard  it  float  farther  and  far- 
ther, 
In  sound  more  perfect  than 

speech ; 

Farther  than  sight  can  follow, 
Farther  than  soul  can  reach. 

And  I  know  that  at  last   my 

message 
Has  passed  through  the  golden 

gate: 

So  my  heart  is  no  longer  rest- 
less, 
And  I  am  content  to  wait. 


NEVER   AGAIN. 

"  NEVER   again !  "    vow    hearts 

when  reunited, 

"  Never  again  shall  Love  be 
cast  aside ; 

Forever  now  the  shadow  has  de- 
parted ; 

Nor  bitter  sorrow,   veiled  in 
scornful  pride, 

Shall  feign  indifference,  or  affect 
disdain,  — 

Never,    O    Love,   again,   never 
again  ! " 


"  Never  again  !  "  so  sobs,  in  bro- 
ken accents, 

A  soul  laid  prostrate  at  a  holy 
shrine,  — 

"  Once  more,  once  more  forgive, 

O  Lord,  and  pardon, 
My  wayward  life  shall  bend  to 
love  divine ; 

And    nevermore    shall    sin    its 
whiteness  stain, — 

Never,    O    God,    again,   never 
again !  " 


"  Never    again  !  "   so    speaketh 

one  forsaken, 
In  the  blank  desolate  passion 

of  despair,  — 
"  Never  again   shall   the  bright 

dream  I  cherished 
Delude  my  heart,   for  bitter 

truth  is  there,  — 
The  angel,  Hope,  shall  still  thy 

cruel  pain 
Never   again,  my   heart,   never 

again !  " 


"  Never  again  !  "  so  speaks  the 

sudden  silence, 
When  round  the  hearth  gathers 

each  well-known  face, 
But  one  is  missing,  and  no  future 

presence, 
However  dear,   can    fill    that 

vacant  place ; 
Forever     shall      the     burning 

thought  remain,  — 
"  Never,   beloved,   again  !  never 


again 


144 


LISTENING  ANGELS, 


up 


"  Never  again! "  so  —  but  beyond 

our  hearing  — 
Ring  out  far  voices  fadin 

the  sky ; 
Never  again  shall  earthly  care 

and  sorrow 
Weigh  down  the  wings  that 

bear  those  souls  on  high ; 
"  Listen,  O  earth,  and  hear  that 

glorious  strain, — 
Never,     never     again !      never 

again !  " 


LISTENING  ANGELS. 

BLUE  against  the  bluer  heavens 
Stood  the  mountain,  calm  and 

still, 
Two     white     Angels,    bending 

earthward, 
Leant  upon  the  hill. 

Listening  leant  those  silent  An- 
gels, 

And  I  also  longed  to  hear 
What    sweet   strain   of  earthly 

music 
Thus  could  charm  their  ear. 

I  heard  the  sound  of  many  trum- 
pets 
In    a    warlike    march    draw 

nigh  ; 

Solemnly  a  mighty  army 
Passed  in  order  by. 


But  the  clang  had  ceased ;  the 

echoes 

Soon  had  faded  from  the  hill ; 
While  the  Angels,  calm  and  ear- 
nest, 
Leant  and  listened  still. 


Then  I  heard  a  fainter  clamor, 
Forge  and  wheel  were  clashing 
near, 

And  the  Reapers  in  the  meadow 
Singing  loud  and  clear. 

When  the  sunset  came  in  glory, 
And  the  toil  of  day  was  o'er, 

Still  the  Angels  leant  in  silence, 
Listening  as  before. 


Then,   as  daylight  slowly  van- 
ished, 
And  the  evening  mists  grew 

dim, 

Solemnly  from  distant  voices 
Rose  a  vesper  hymn. 

When  the  chant  was  done,  and 
lingering 

Died  upon  the  evening  air, 
From  the  bill  the  radiant  Angels 

Still  were  listening  there. 

Silent  came  the  gathering  dark- 
ness, 
Bringing   with   it   sleep    and 

rest; 

Save  a  little  bird  was  singing 
Near  her  leafy  nest. 


GOLDEN  DAYS. 


145 


Through  the  sounds  of  war  and 

labor 

She  had  warbled  all  day  long, 
While  the  Angels  leant  and  lis- 
tened 
Only  to  her  song. 

But  the  starry  night  was  com- 
ing; 

When  she  ceased  her  little  lay, 
From  the  mountain-top  the  An- 
gels 
Slowly  passed  away. 


GOLDEN   DAYS. 

GOLDEN  days — where  are  they  ? 

Pilgrims  east  and  west 
Cry ;  if  we  could  find  them 

We  would  pause  and  rest : 
We  would  pause  and  rest  a  little 
From   our   long   and    weary 

ways :  — 
Where  are  they,  then,  where  are 

they  — 
Golden  days  ? 


Golden  days — where  are  they? 

Ask  of  childhood's  years, 
Still  untouched  by  sorrdw, 

Still  undimmed  by  tears  : 
Ah,  they  seek  a  phantom  Future, 
Crowned  with  brighter,  starry 

rays ; — 
Where  are  they,  then,  where  are 

they  — 
Golden  days  ? 

Golden  days  —  where  are  they  ? 

Has  Love  learnt  the  spell 
That  will  charm  them  hither, 
Near  our  hearth  to  dwell  ? 
Insecure  are  all  her  treasures, 
Restless      is      her      anxious 

gaze:  — 
Where  are  they,  then,  where  are 

they  — 
Golden  Days  ? 

Golden  days  —  where  are  they  ? 

Farther  up  the  hill 
I  can  hear  the  echo 

Faintly  calling  still : 
Faintly  calling,  faintly  dying, 
In  a  far-off  misty  haze  :  — 
Where  are  they,  then,  where  are 

they  — 
Golden  days  ? 


146  PHILIP  AND  MILDRED. 


PHILIP   AND   MILDRED. 

LINGERING  fade  the  rays  of  daylight,  and  the  listening  air  is  chilly ; 

Voice  of  bird  and  forest  murmur,  insect  hum  and  quivering  spray, 
Stir  not  in  that  quiet  hour  :  through  the  valley,  calm  and  stilly, 

All  in  hushed  and  loving  silence  watch  the  slow  departing  Day. 

Till  the  last  faint  western  cloudlet,  faint  and  rosy,  ceases  blushing, 
And  the  blue  grows  deep  and  deeper  where  one  trembling  planet 

shines, 

And  the  day  has  gone  forever —  then,  like  some  great  ocean  rushing, 
The  sad  night  wind  wails  lamenting,  sobbing  through  the  moan- 
ing pines. 


Such,  of  all  day's  changing  hours,  is  the  fittest  and  the  meetest 

For  a  farewell  hour  —  and  parting  looks  less  bitter  and  more  blest ; 
Earth   seems   like  a  shrine   for  sorrow,  Nature's   mother  voice  is 

sweetest, 

And  her  hand  seems  laid  in  chiding  on  the  unquiet  throbbing 
breast. 


Words  are  lower,  for  the  twilight  seems  rebuking  sad  repining, 
And  wild  murmur  and  rebellion,  as  all  childish  and  in  vain ; 
Breaking  through  dark  future  hours  clustering  starry  hopes  seem 

shining, 

Then  the  calm  and  tender  midnight  folds  her  shadow  round  the 
pain. 


So  they  paced  the  shady  lime-walk  in  that  twilight  dim  and  holy, 

Still  the  last  farewell  deferring,  she  could  hear  or  he  should  say ; 
Every   word,   weighed   down   by   sorrow,  fell   more   tenderly  and 

slowly  — 

This,  which  now  beheld  their  parting,  should  have   been   their 
wedding-day. 


PHILIP  AND  MILDRED.  147 

Should  have  been  :  her  dreams  of  childhood,  never  straying,  never 
faltering, 

Still  had  needed  Philip's  image  to  make  future  life  complete ; 
Philip's  young  hopes  of  ambition,  ever  changing,  ever  altering, 

Needed  .Mildred's  gentle  presence  even  to  make  successes  sweet. 

This  day  should  have  seen  their  marriage  ;  the  calm  crowning  and 
assurance 

Of  two  hearts,  fulfilling  rather,  and  not  changing,  either  life : 
Now  they  must  be  rent  asunder,  and  her  heart  must  learn  endurance, 

For  he  leaves  their  home,  and  enters  ou  a  world  of  work  and  strife. 

But  her  gentle  spirit  long  had  learnt,  unquestioning,  submitting, 
To  revere  his  youthful  longings,  and  to  marvel  at  the  fate 

That  gave  such  a  humble  office,  all  unworthy  and  unfitting, 

To  the  genius  of  the  village,  who  was  born  for  something  great. 

When  the  learne'd  Traveller  came  there  who  had  gained  renown  at 

college, 

Whose  abstruse  research  had  won  him  even  European  fame, 
Questioned  Philip,  praised  his  genius,  marvelled  at  his  self-taught 

knowledge, 
Could  she  murmur  if  he  called  him  up  to  London  and  to  fame  ? 

Could  she  waver  when  he  bade  her  take  the  burden  of  decision, 
Since  his  troth  to  her  was  plighted,  and  his  life  was  now  her  own  ? 

Could  she  doom  him  to  inaction  ?  could  she,  when  a  new-born  vision 
Rose  in  glory  for  his  future,  check  it  for  her  sake  alone  ? 

So  her  little  trembling  fingers,  that  had  toiled  with  such  fond  pleasure, 
Paused,  and  laid  aside,  and  folded  the  unfinished  wedding  gown  ; 

Faltering  earnestly  assurance,  that  she  too  could,  in  her  measure, 
Prize  for  him  the  present  honor,  and  the  future's  sure  renown. 

Now  they  pace  the  shady  lime-walk,  now  the  last  words  must  be 

spoken, 
Words  of  trust,  for  neither  dreaded  more  than  waiting  and  delay ; 


148  PHILIP  AND  MILDRED. 

Was    not    love   still   called   eternal,  —  could    a    plighted    vow    be 

broken  ?  — 
See  the  crimson  light  of  sunset  fades  in  purple  mist  away. 

"  Yes,  my  Mildred,"  Philip  told  her,  "  one  calm  thought  of  joy  and 

blessing, 

Like  a  guardian  spirit  by  me,  through  the  world's  tumultuous  stir, 
Still  will  spread  its  wings  above  me,  and  now  urging,  now  repressing, 
With  my  Mildred's  voice  will  murmur  thoughts  of  home,  and  love, 
and  her. 

"  It  will  charm  my  peaceful  leisure,  sanctify  my  daily  toiling, 

With  a  right  none  else  possesses,  touching  my  heart's  inmost  string ; 
And  to  keep  its  pure  wings  spotless  I  shall  fly  the  world's  touch, 

soiling 

Even  in  thought  this  Angel  Guardian  of  my  Mildred's  Wedding 
Ring. 

"  Take  it,  dear ;  this  little  circlet  is  the  first  link,  strong  and  holy, 
Of  a  life-long  chain,  and  holds  me  from  all  other  love  apart; 

Till  the  day  when  you  may  wear  it  as  my  wife  —  my  own  —  mine 

wholly  — 
Let  inc  know  it  rests  forever  near  the  beating  of  your  heart." 

Dawn  of  day  saw  Philip  speeding  on  his  road  to  the  Great  City, 
Thinking  how  the  stars  gazed  downward  just  with  Mildred's  patient 
eyes ; 

Dreams  of  work,  and  fame,  and  honor  struggling  with  a  tender  pity, 
Till  the  loving  Past  receding  saw  the  conquering  Future  rise. 

Daybreak  still  found  Mildred  watching,  with  the  wonder  of  first 
sorrow, 

How  the  outward  world  unaltered  shone  the  same  this  very  day; 
How  unpitying  and  relentless  busy  life  met  this  new  morrow, 

Earth,  and  sky,  and  man  unheeding  that  her  joy  had  passed  away. 

Then  the  round  of  weary  duties,  cold  and  formal,  came  to  meet  her, 
With  the  life  within  departed  that  had  given  them  each  a  soul; 

And  her  sick  heart  even  slighted  gentle  words  that  came  to  greet  her; 
For  Grief  spread  its  shadowy  pinions,  like  a  blight  upon  the  whole. 


PHILIP  AND  MILDRED.  149 

Jar  one  chord,  the  harp  is  silent ;  move  one  stone,  the  arch  is  shattered ; 

One  small  clarion-cry  of  sorrow  bids  an  arme'd  host  awake; 
One  dark  cloud  can  hide  the  sunlight ;   loose  one  string,  the  pearls 

are  scattered ; 

Think   one   thought,  a   soul  may  perish ;  say  one  word,  a  heart 
may  break ! 

Life  went  on,  he  two  lives  running  side  by  side  ;  the  outward  seeming, 
And  the  truer  and  diviner  hidden  in  the  heart  and  brain  ; 

Dreams  grow  holy,  put  in  action  ;  work  grows  fair  through  starry 

dreaming ; 
But  where  each  flows  on  unmingling,  both  are  fruitless  and  in  vain. 

Such  was  Mildred's  life ;  her  dreaming  lay  in  some  far-distant  region, 
All  the  fairer,  all  the  brighter,  that  its  glories  were  but  guessed ; 

And  the  dailv  round  of  duties  seemed  an  unreal,  airy  legion, — 
Nothing  true  save  Philip's  letters  and  the  ring  upon  her  breast. 

Letters  telling  how  he  struggled,  for  some  plan  or  vision  aiming, 
And  at  last  how  he  just  grasped  it  as  a  fresh  one  spread  its  wings; 

How  the  honor  or  the  learning,  once  the  climax,  now  were  claiming, 
Only  more  and  more,  becoming  merely  steps  to  higher  things. 

Telling  her  of  foreign  countries  :  little  store  had  she  of  learning, 
So  her  earnest,  simple  spirit  answered  as  he  touched  the  string ; 

Day  by  day,  to  these  bright  fancies  all  her  silent  thoughts  were  turning, 
Seeing  every  radiant  picture  framed  within  her  golden  King. 

O  poor  heart !  love,  if  thou  wiliest ;  but,  thine  own  soul  still  possessing, 
Live  thy  life  :  not  a  reflection  or  a  shadow  of  his  own  : 

Lean  as  fondly,  as  completely,  as  thou  wiliest,  —  but  confessing 
That  thy  strength  is  God's,  and  therefore  can,  if  need  be,  stand 
alone. 

Little  means  were  there  around  her  to  make  farther,  wider  ranges, 
Where  her  loving  gentle  spirit  could  try  any  stronger  flight ; 

And  she  turned  aside,  half  fearing  that  fresh  thoughts  were  fickle 

changes,  — 
That  she  must  stay  as  he  left  her  on  that  farewell  summer  night. 


150  PHILIP  AND  MILDRED. 

Love  should  still  be  guide  and  leader,  like  a  herald  should  have  risen, 
Lighting  up  the  long  dark  vistas,  conquering  all  opposing  fates; 

But  new  claims,  new  thoughts,  new  duties  found  her  heart  a  silent 

prison, 
And  found  Love,  with  folded  pinions,  like  a  jailer  by  the  gates. 

Yet  why  blame  her  ?  it  had  needed  greater  strength  than  she  was  given 
To  have  gone  against  the  current  that  so  calmly  flowed  along  ; 

Kothing  fresh  came  near  the  village  save  the  rain  and  dew  of  heaven, 
And  her  nature  was  too  passive,  and  her  love  perhaps  too  strong. 

The  great  world  of  thought,  that  rushes  down  the  years,  and  on- 
ward sweeping 

Bears  upon  its  mighty  billows  in  its  progress  each  and  all, 
Flowed  so   fur  away,  its  murmur  did  not  rouse  them  from  their 

sleeping ; 

Life  and  Time  and  Truth  were  speaking,  but  they  did  not  hear 
their  call. 

Years  flowed  on  ;  and  every  morning  heard  her  prayer  grow  lower, 

deeper, 

As  she  called  all  blessings  on  him,  and  bade  every  ill  depart, 
And  each  night  when  the  cold  moonlight  shone  upon  that  quiet  sleeper, 
It  would  show  her  ring  that  glittered  with  each  throbbing  of  her 
heart. 

Years  passed  on.  Fame  came  for  Philip  in  a  full,  o'erflowing 
measure ; 

He  was  spoken  of  and  honored  through  the  breadth  of  many  lands, 
And  he  wrote  it  all  to  Mildred,  as  if  praise  were  only  pleasure, 

As  if  fame  were  only  honor,  when  he  laid  them  in  her  hands. 

Mildred  heard  it  without  wonder,  as  a  sure  result  expected, 
For  how  could  it  fail,  since  merit  and  renown  go  side  by  side  ? 

And  the  neighbors,  who  first  fancied  genius  ought  to  be  suspected, 
Might  at  last  give  up  their  caution,  and  could  own  him  now  with 
pride.  ** 

Years  flowed  on.  These  empty  honors  led  to  others  they  called  better, 
He  had  saved  some  slender  fortune,  and  might  claim  his  bride  at  last: 


PHILIP  AND  MILDRED.  151 

Mildred,  grown  so  used  to  waiting,  felt  half  startled  by  the  letter 
That  now  made  her  future  certain,  and  would  consecrate  her  past. 

And  he  came  :  grown  sterner,  older  —  changed  indeed  :  a  grave 
reliance 

Had  replaced  his  eager  manner,  and  the  quick  short  speech  of  old  : 
He  had  gone  forth  with  a  spirit  half  of  hope  and  half  defiance ; 

He  returned  with  proud  assurance  half  disdainful  and  half  cold. 

Yet  his  old  self  seemed  returning  while  he  stood  sometimes,  and  lis- 
tened 

To  her  calm,  soft  voice,  relating  all  the  thoughts  of  these  long  years ; 
And  if  Mildred's  heart  was  heavy,  and  at  times  her  blue  eyes  glistened, 

Still  in  thought  she  would  not  whisper  aught  of  sorrow  or  of  fears. 

Autumn  with  its  golden  cornfields,  autumn  with  itsstorms  and  showers, 
Had  been  there  to  greet  his  coming  with  its  forests  gold  and  brown ; 

And  the  last  leaves  still  were  falling,  fading  still  the  year's  last  flowers, 
When  he  left  the  quiet  village,  and  took  back  his  bride  to  town. 

Home,  —  the  home  that  she  had  pictured  many  a  time  in  twilight, 

dwelling 

On  that  tender,  gentle  fancy,  folded  round  with  loving  care ; 
Here  was   home,  —  the   end,   the    haven ;    and  what  spirit   voice 

seemed  telling, 
That  she  only  held  the  casket,  with  the  gem  no  longer  there  ? 

Sad  it  may  be  to  be  longing,  with  a  patience  faint  and  weary, 
For  a  hope  deferred,  —  and  sadder  still  to  see  it  fade  and  fall ; 

Yet  to  grasp  the  thing  we  long  for,  and,  with  sorrow  sick  and  dreary, 
Then  to  find  how  it  can  fail  us,  is  the  saddest  pain  of  all. 

'\Vhut  was  wanting?     He   was   gentle,   kind,   and   generous   still, 

deferring 

To  her  wishes  always ;  nothing  seemed  to  mar  their  tranquil  life : 
There  are  skies  so  calm  and  leaden  that  we  long  for  storm-wind-* 

stirring, 
There  is  peace  so  cold  and  bitter,  that  we  almost  welcome  strife. 

Darker  grew  the  clouds  above  her,  and  the  slow  conviction  clearer, 
That  he  gave  her  home  and  pity,  but  that  heart  and  soul  and  mind 


152  nil  LIP  AND  MILDRED. 

Were  beyond  her  now;  beloved  her,  and  in  youth  he  bad  been  near  her, 
But  he  now  had  gone  far  onward,  and  had  left  her  there  behind. 

Yes,  beyond  her :  yes,  quick-hearted,  her  Love  helped  her  in  revealing 
It  was  worthless,  while  so  mighty;  was  too  weak,  although  so  strong; 

There  were  courts  she  could  not  enter,  depths  she  could  not  sound ; 

yet  feeling 
It  was  vain  to  strive  or  struggle,  vainer  still  to  mourn  or  long. 

He  would  give  her  words  of  kindness,  he  would  talk  of  home,  but 
seeming 

With  an  absent  look,  forgetting  if  he  held  or  dropped  her  hand ; 
And  then  turn  with  eager  pleasure  to  his  writing,  reading,  dreaming, 

Or  to  speak  of  things  with  others  that  she  could  not  understand. 

He  had  paid,  and  paid  most  nobly,  all  he  owed  ;  no  need  of  blaming ; 

It  had  cost  him  something,  maybe,  that  no  future  could  restore  : 
In  her  heart  of  hearts  she  knew  it ;  Love  and  Sorrow,  not  complaining, 

Only  suffered  all  the  deeper,  only  loved  him  all  the  more. 

Sometimes  then  a  stronger  anguish,  and  more  cruel,  weighed  upon 

her, 
That,  through  all  those  years  of  waiting,  he  had  slowly  learnt  the 

truth ; 

He  had  known  himself  mistaken,  but  that,  bound  to  her  in  honor, 
He  renounced  his  life,  to  pay  her  for  the  patience  of  her  youth. 

But  a  star  was  slowly  rising  from  that  mist  of  grief,  and  brighter 
Grew  her  eyes,  for  each  slow  hour  surer  comfort  seemed  to  bring; 

And  she  watched  with  strange  sad  smiling  how  her  trembling  hands 

grew  slighter, 
And  how  thin  her  slender  finger,  and  how  large  her  wedding-ring. 

And  the  tears  dropped  slowly  on  it,  as  she  kissed  that  golden  token 
With  a  deeper  love,  it  may  be,  than  was  in  the  far-off  past ; 

And  remembering  Philip's  fancy,  that  so  long  ago  was  spoken, 
Thought  her  King's  bright  angel  guardian  had  stayed  near  her  to 
the  last. 


BORROWED    THOUGHTS. 


153 


Grieving  sorely,  grieving  truly,  with  a  tender  care  and  sorrow, 
Philip  watched  the  slow,  sure  fading  of  his  gentle,  patient  wife  ; 

Could  he  guess  with  what  a  yearning  she  was  longing  for  the  morrow, 
Could  he  guess  the  bitter  knowledge  that  had  wearied  her  of  life  ? 

Now  with  violets  strewn  upon  her,  Mildred  lies  in  peaceful  sleeping; 

All  unhound  her  long,  hright  tresses,  and  her  throbbing  heart  at  rest, 
And  the  cold,  blue  rays  of  moonlight,  through  the  open  casement 
creeping, 

Show  the  ring  upon  her  finger,  and  her  hands  crossed  on  her  breast. 

Peace  at  last.     Of  peace  eternal  is  her  calm,  sweet  smile  a  token. 

Has  some  angel  lingering  near  her  let  a  radiant  promise  fall? 
Has  he  told  her  Heaven  unites  again  the  links  that  Earth  has  broken  ? 

For  on  Earth  so  much  is  needed,  but  in  Heaven  Love  is  all ! 


BORROWED    THOUGHTS. 

I.    FROM  "LAVATER." 

TRUST  him  little  who  doth  raise 
To  one  height  both  great  and 

small, 
And   sets   the   sacred  crown  of 

praise, 
Smiling,  on  the  head  of  all. 

Trust    him     less     who     looks 

around 
To  censure  all  with  scornful 

eyes, 

And  in  everything  has  found 
Something    that   he  dare  de- 
spise. 

But  for  one  who  stands  apart, 
Stirred    by   naught  that  can 
befall, 


With  a  cold,  indifferent  heart, — 
Trust   him   least  and  last  of 
all. 


II.    FROM   "PHANTASIES." 

I    HAVE    a   bitter   Thought,   a 

Snake 
That  used  to  sting  my  life  to 

pain. 

I  strove  to  cast  it  far  away, 
But  every  nipht  and  every  day 
It  crawled   back  to  my  heart 
again ! 

It  was  in  vain  to  live  or  strive, 
To  think  or  sleep,  to  work  or 

pray; 
At  last  I  bade  this  thing  accursed 


154 


BORROWED   THOUGHTS. 


Gnaw  at  my  heart,  and  do  its 

worst, 
And  so  I  let  it  have  its  way. 

Tli  us  said  I,  "  I  shall  never  fall 
Into   a   false    and    dreaming 

peace, 
And  then  awake,  with  sudden 

start, 

To  feel  it  biting  at  my  heart, 
For  now  the  pain  can  never 
cease." 

But  I  gained  more ;  for  I  have 

found 

That  such   a  snake's  enven- 
omed charm 

Must  always,  always  find  a  part, 
Deep  in  the  centre  of  my  heart, 
Which  it  can  never  wound  or 
harm. 

It  is  coiled  round  my  heart  to- 
day. 
It  sleeps  at  times,  this  cruel 

snake, 
And   while    it   sleeps   it   never 

stings  :  — 

Hush !  let  us  talk  of  other  things, 
Lest  it  should  hear  me  and 
awake. 


III.    FROM  "LOST  ALICE." 

YES,  dear,  our  Love  is  slain  ; 
In  the  cold  grave  forevermore  it 

lies, 
Never  to  wake  again, 


Or    light   our   sorrow    with   its 

starry  eyes : 
Aud  so  —  regret  is  vain. 

One  hour  of  pain  and  dread, 
We  killed  our  Love,  we  took  its 

life  away 
With    the   false  words   we 

said ; 
And  so  we  watch  it,  since  that 

cruel  day, 
Silent,  and  cold,  and  dead. 

We    should    have   seen  it 

shine 
Long  years  l>eside  us.    Time  and 

Death  might  try 
To  touch  that  life  divine, 
Whose  strength  could  every  other 

stroke  defy 
Save  only  thine  and  mine. 

No  longing  can  restore 
Our  dead  again.     Vain  are  the 

tears  we  weep, 
And  vainly  we  deplore 
Our  buried  Love  :  its  grave  lies 

dark  and  deep 
Between  us  evermore. 


IV.    FROM  »  *  * 

WITHIN    the    kingdom   of  my 

Soul 

I  bid  you  enter,  Love,  to-day  ; 
Submit  my  life  to  your  control, 
And  give  my  Heart  up  to  your 

sway. 


LIGHT  AND  SHADE. 


155 


My  Past,  whose  light  and  life  is 

flown, 
Shall  live  through  memory  for 

you  still ; 
Take   all  my  Present  for  your 

own, 
And  mould  my  Future  to  your 

will. 


One  only  thought  remains  apart, 
And  will  forever  so  remain  ; 
There  is  one   Chamber  in   my 

heart 
Where  even  you  might  knock  in 


A  haunted  Chamber :  —  long  ago 
I  dosed  it,  and  I  cast  the  key 
Where  deep  and   bitter  waters 

flow, 
Into  a  vast  and  silent  sea. 


Dear,   it   is   haunted.     All   the 

rest 
Is  yours ;   but  I  have  shut  that 

door 

Forever  now.     'T  is  even  best 
That  I  should  enter  it  no  more. 

No  more.     It  is  not  well  to  stay 
With   ghosts ;    their   very   look 

would  scare 
Your     joyous,     loving      smile 

away  ;  — 
So  never  try  to  enter  there. 

Check,  if  you  love  me,  all  regret 
That  this  one  thought  remains 
apart :  — 


Now  let  us  smile,  dear,  and  for- 
get 

The  haunted  Chamber  in  my 
Heart. 


LIGHT  AND   SHADE. 

Tuou  hast  done  well  to  kneel 

and  say, 
"  Since  He  who  gave  can  take 

away, 
And  bid  me  suffer,  I  obey." 

And  also  well  to  tell  thy  heart, 
That  good  lies  in   the  bitterest 

part, 
And  thou  wilt  profit  by  her  smart. 

But  bitter  hours  come  to  all  : 
When  even  truths  like  these  will 

pall, 
Sick  hearts  for  humbler  comfort 

call. 

Then  I  would  have  thee  strive  to 

see 

That  good  and  evil  come  to  thee, 
As  one  of  a  great  family. 

And  as  material  life  is  planned, 
That  even  the  loneliest  one  must 

stand 
Dependent     on     his     brother's 

hand ; 

So  links  more  subtle  and  more  fine 
Bind  every  other  soul  to  thine 
In  one  great  brotherhood  divine. 


156 


LIGHT  AND  SHADE. 


Nor  with  thy  share  of  work  be 

vexed  ; 
Though    incomplete,    and   even 

perplext, 
It  fits  exactly  to  the  next. 


What  seems  so  dark  to  thy  dim 

sight 

May  be  a  shadow,  seen  aright, 
Making  some  brightness  doubly 

bright. 


The  flash  that  struck  thy  tree  — 
no  more 

To  shelter  thce  —  lets  Heaven's 
blue  floor 

Shine  where  it  never  shone  be- 
fore. 


Thy  life  that  has  been  dropped 

aside 
Into  Time's  stream,  may  stir  the 

tide 
In  rippled  circles  spreading  wide. 


The  cry  wrung  from  thy  spirit's 

pain 

May  echo  on  some  far-off  plain, 
And    guide   a   wanderer   home 

again. 


Fail  —  yet  rejoice  ;  because  no 
less 

The  failure  that  makes  thy  dis- 
tress 

May  teach  another  full  success. 


It  may  be  that  in  some  great 

need 
Thy  life's   poor  fragments   are 

decreed 
To  help  build  up  a  lofty  deed. 

Thy  heart  should  throb  in  vast 
content, 

Thus  knowing  that  it  was  but 
meant 

As  chord  in  one  great  instru- 
ment ; 

That  even  the  discord   in   thy 

soul 

May  make  completer  music  roll 
From  out  the  great  harmonious 

whole. 

It  may  be,  that  when  all  is  light, 
Deep  set  within  that  deep  de- 
light 

Will  be  to  know  why  all  was 
right ; 

To  hear  life's  perfect  music  rise, 
And,  while  it  floods  the  happy 

skies, 
Thy  feeble  voice  to  recognize. 

Then  strive  more  gladly  to  fulfil 
Thy  little  part.     This  darkness 

still 
Is  light  to  every  loving  will. 

And  trust,  as  if  already  plain, 
How  just  thy  share  of  loss  and 

pain 
Is  for  another  fuller  gain. 


A   CHANGELING. 


157 


I  dare  not  limit  time  or  place 
Touched  l>y  thy  life  :  nor  dare  I 

trace 
Its  far  vibrations  into  space. 

One  only  knows.     Yet  if  the  fret 
Of  thy  weak  heart,  in  weak  re- 
gret 
Needs  a  more  tender  comfort  yet  : 

Then  thou  mayst  take  thy  lone- 
liest fears, 

The  bitterest  drops  of  all  thy 
tears, 

The  dreariest  hours  of  all  thy 
years ; 

And  through  thy  anguish  there 

outspread, 
May  ask  that  God's  great  love 

would  shed 
Blessings  on  one  beloved  head. 

And  thus  thy  soul  shall  learn  to 

draw 
Sweetness  from  out  that  loving 

law 
That  sees  no  failure  and  no  flaw, 

Where  all  is  good.     And  life  is 

good, 

Were  the  one  lesson  understood 
Of  its  most  sacred  brotherhood. 


A   CHANGELING. 

A  LITTLE  changeling  spirit 
Crept  to  my  arms  one  day : 


I  had  no  heart  or  courage 
To  drive  the  child  away. 

So  all  day  long  I  soothed  her. 

And  hushed  her  on  my  breast; 
And  all  night  long  her  wailing 

Would  never  let  me  rest. 

I  dug  a  grave  to  hold  her, 
A  grave  both  dark  and  deep ; 

I  covered  her  with  violets, 
And  laid  her  there  to  sleep. 

I  used  to  go  and  watch  there, 
Both    night     and     morning 
too :  — 

It  was  my  tears,  I  fancy, 
That  kept  the  violets  blue. 

I  took  her  up :  and  once  more 
1  felt  the  clinging  hold, 

And  heard  the  ceaseless  wailing 
That  wearied  me  of  old. 

I  wandered,  and  I  wandered, 
With  my  burden  on  my  breast, 

Till  I  saw  a  church-door  open, 
And  entered  in  to  rest. 

In  the  dim,  dying  daylight, 
Set  in  a  flowery  shrine, 

I  saw  the  Virgin  Mother 
Holding  her  Child  divine. 

I  knelt  down  there  in  silence, 
And  on  the  altar-stone 

I  laid  my  wailing  burden, 
And  came  away  —  alone. 


158 


DISCOURAGED. 


And  now  that  little  spirit, 
That  sobbed  go  all  day  long, 

Is  grown  a  shining  Angel, 
With    wings   both   wide  and 
strong. 

She  watches  me  from  Heaven 
With  loving,  tender  care, 

And  one  day  she  has  promised 
That  I  shall  find  her  there. 


DISCOURAGED. 

WHERE     the     little     babbling 

streamlet 

First  brings  forth  to  light, 
Trickling   through    soft     velvet 

mosses, 

Almost  hid  from  sight ; 
Vowed  I  with  delight,  — 
"  River,  I  will  follow  thee, 
Through  thy  wanderings  to  the 
Sea  ! " 

Gleaming  'mid  the  purpleheather, 
Downward  then  it  sped, 

Glancing  through  the  mountain 

gorges, 

Like  a  silver  thread, 
As  it  quicker  fled, 

Louder  music  in  its  flow, 

Dashing  to  the  vale  below. 

Then  its  voice  grew  lower,  gen- 
tler, 
And  its  pace  less  fleet, 


Just  as  though  it  loved  to  linger 
Round  the  rushes'  feet, 
As  they  stooped  to  meet 
Their  clear  images  below, 
Broken  by  the  ripples'  flow. 

Purple  Willow-herb  bent  over 

To  her  shadow  fair  ; 
Meadow-sweet,  in  feathery  clus- 
ters, 

Perfumed  all  the  air ; 

Silver-weed  was  there, 
And  in  one  calm,  grassy  spot, 
Starry,  blue  Forget-me-not. 

Tangled  weeds,  below  the  waters, 
Still  seemed  drawn  away  ; 

Yet  the  current,  floating  onward, 
Was  less  strong  than  they  ;  — 
Sunbeams  watched  their  play, 

With  a  flickering  light  and  shade, 

Through  the  screen  the  Alders 
made. 


Broader  grew  the  flowing  River; 

To  its  grassy  brink 
Slowly,  in  the  slanting  sun-rays, 

Cattle  trooped  to  drink  ; 

The  blue  sky,  I  think, 
Was  no  bluer  than  that  stream, 
Slipping  onward,  like  a  dream. 

Quicker,  deeper  then  it  hurried, 
Rushing  fierce  and  free; 

But   I   said,    "  It   should  grow 

calmer 

Ere  it  meets  the  Sea, 
The  wide  purple  Sea, 


THE   WARRIOR   TO  HIS  DEAD  BRIDE. 


159 


Which  I  weary  for  in  vain, 
Wasting  all  my  toil  and  pain." 

But  it  rushed  still  quicker,  fiercer, 

In  its  rocky  bed, 
Hard  and  stony  was  the  pathway 

To  my  tired  tread  ; 

"  I  despair,"  I  said, 
"  Of  that  wide  and  glorious  Sea 
That  was  promised  unto  me." 

So  I  turned  aside,  and  wandered 
Through  green  meadows  near, 

Far  away,  among  the  daisies, 
Far  away,  for  fear 
Lest  I  still  should  hear 

The  loud  murmur  of  its  song, 

As  the  River  flowed  along. 

Now  I  hear  it  not :  —  I  loiter 

Gayly  as  before ; 
Yet   I   sometimes   think,  —  and 

thinking 

Makes  my  heart  so  sore,  — 
Just  a  few  steps  more, 
And  there  might  have  shone  for 

me, 
Blue  and  infinite,  the  Sea. 


IF  THOU  COULDST  KNOW. 

I  THINK  if  thou  couldst  know, 
O  soul  that  will  complain, 

What  lies  concealed  below 
Our  burden  and  our  pain ; 


How  just  our  anguish  brings 
Nearer  those  longed-for  things 
We  seek  for  now  in  vain,  — 
I  think  thou  wouldst  rejoice,  and 
not  complain. 

I  think  if  thou  couldst  see, 

With  thy  dim  mortal  sight, 

How  meanings,  dark  to  thee, 

Are  shadows  hiding  light ; 

Truth's   efforts   crossed    and 

vexed, 

Life's  purpose  all  perplexed,  — 

If  thou  couldst  see  them  right, 

I  think  that  they  would  seem  all 

clear,  and  wise,  and  bright. 

And  yet  thou  canst  not  know, 
And  yet  thou  canst  not  see  ; 
Wisdom  and  sight  are  slow 

In  poor  humanity. 
If  thou  couldst  trust,  poor  soul, 
In  Him  who  rules  the  whole, 
Thou  wouldst  find  peace  and 

rest : 

Wisdom  and  sight  are  well,  but 
Trust  is  best. 


THE    WARRIOR    TO    HIS 
DEAD   BRIDE. 

IF  in  the  fight  my  arm  was  strong, 
And  forced  my  foes  to  yield,  — • 

If  conquering  and  unhurt  I  camo 
Back  from  the  battlc-h'eld,  — 

It  is  because  thy  prayers  have 

been 
My  safeguard  and  my  shield. 


ICO 


A  LETTER. 


My  comrades  smile  to  sec  my  arm 

Spare  or  protect  a  foe, 
They  think  thy  gentle  pleading 


Was  silenced  long  ago  ; 
But  pity  and  compassion,  love, 
Were  taught  me  first  by  woe. 

Thy  heart,  my  own,  still  beats 

in  Heaven 

With  the  same  love  divine 
That  made  thee  stoop  to  such  a 

soul, 

So  hard,  so  stern  as  mine,  — 
My  eyes  have  learnt  to  weep,  be- 
loved, 
Since  last  they  looked  on  thine 

I  hear    thee  murmur  words  of 

peace 

Through  the  dim  midnight  air, 
And  a  calm  falls  from  the  angel 

stars 

And   soothes    my  great    de- 
spair, — 
The    heavens    themselves    look 

brighter,  love, 
Since  thy  sweet  soul  is  there. 

And  if  my  heart  is  once  more 

calm, 

My  step  is  once  more  free, 
It  is  because  each  hour  I  feel 

Thou  prayest  still  for  me  ;    . 
Because   no  fate  or  change  can 

come 
Between  my  soul  and  thee. 

It  is  because  my  heart  is  stilled, 
Not  broken  by  despair, 


Because  I  see  the  grave  is  bright, 
And  death  itself  is  fair  :  — 

I  dread  no  more  the  wrath  of 

Heaven,  — 
I  have  an  angel  there  ! 


A   LETTER. 

DEAR,  I  tried  to  write  you  such 

a  letter 
As  would  tell  you  all  my  heart 

to-day. 
Written  Love  is  poor  ;  one  word 

were  better ; 
Easier,  too,  a  thousand  times,  to 

say. 

I  can  tell  you  all :  fears,  doubts 

unheeding, 
While  I  can  be  near  you,  hold 

your  hand, 
Looking  right  into  your   eyes, 

and  reading 
Reassurance  that  you  understand. 

Yet   I   wrote   it  through,   then 

lingered,  thinking 
Of  its  reaching  you,  —  what  hour, 

what  day  ; 
Till  I  felt  my  heart  and  courage 

sinking 
With  a  strange,  new,  wondering 

dismay. 

"  Will  my  letter  fall,"  I  wondered 
sadly, 

"  On  her  mood  like  some  dis- 
cordant tone, 


A  LETTER. 


161 


Or  be   welcomed   tenderly   and 

gladly? 
Will  she  be  with  others,  or  alone  ? 

"  It  may  find  her  too  absorbed  to 

read  it, 
Save  with  hurried   glance   and 

careless  air  : 
Sad  and  weary,  she  may  scarcely 

heed  it ; 
Gay  and  happy,  she  may  hardly 


"  Shall    I  —  dare   I  —  risk   the 

chances  ? "  slowly 
Something  —  was    it    shyness, 

love,  or  pride  ?  — 
Chilled  my   heart,  and  checked 

my  courage  wholly ; 
So  I  laid  it  wistfully  aside. 

Then  I  leant  against  the  case- 
ment, turning 

Tearful  eyes  towards  the  far-off 
west, 

Where  the  golden  evening  light 
was  burning, 

Till  my  heart  throbbed  back 
again  to  rest. 

And  I  thought :  "  Love's  soul  is 

not  in  fetters, 
Neither   space   nor   time   keeps 

souls  apart ; 
Since    I    cannot — dare    not  — 

send  my  letters, 
Through  the  silence  I  will  send 

my  heart. 


"  If,   perhaps    now,   while    my 

tears  are  falling, 
She  is  dreaming  quietly  alone, 
She  will  hear  my  Love's  far  echo 

calling, 
Feel  my  spirit  drawing  near  her 

own. 

"  She  will  hear,  while  twilight 

shades  enfold  her, 
All  the  gathered  Love  she  knows 

so  well,  — 
Deepest  Love   my   words  have 

ever  told  her, 
Deeper  still  —  all  I  could  never 

tell. 

"  Wondering    at    the    strange, 

mysterious  power 
That  has  touched  her  heart,  then 

she  will  say  : 
'  Some  one   whom  I  love,  this 

very  hour, 
Thinks  of  me,  and  loves  me,  far 

away.' 

"  If,  as  well  may  be,  to-night 
has  found  her 

Full  of  other  thoughts,  with 
others  by, 

Through  the  words  and  claims 
that  gather  round  her 

She  will  hear  just  one  half- 
smothered  sigh ; 

"  Or  will  marvel  why,  without 
her  seeking, 

Suddenly  the  thought  of  me  re- 
curs; 


A    COMFORTER. 


Or,  while  listening   to   another 

speaking. 
Fancy  that  my  hand  is  holding 

hers." 

So  I  dreamed,  and  watched  the 
stars'  far  splendor 

Glimmering  on  the  azure  dark- 
ness, start,  — 

While  the  star  of  trust  rose  bright 
and  tender, 

Through  the  twilight  shadows  of 
my  heart. 


A    COMFORTER. 


she  come  to  me,  little 
Effie, 
Will  she  come  in  my  arms  to 

rest, 
And   nestle   her   head    on    my 

shoulder, 

While  the  sun  goes  down  in 
the  west? 


"  I  and  Effie  will  sit  together, 
All  alone,  in  this  great   arm- 
chair :  — 

Is  it  silly  to  mind  it,  darling, 
When  Life  is  so  hard  to  bear  ? 


"  No  one  comforts  me  like  my 

Effie, 

Just  I  think  that  she  does  not 
t'7,— 


Only  looks  with  a  wistful  won- 
der 

Why   grown    people    should 
ever  cry ; 


"  While  her  little  soft  arms  close 

tighter 

Round  my  neck  in  their  cling- 
ing hold  :  — 
Well,   I  must  not  cry  on  your 

hair,  dear, 

For  my  tears  might    tarnish 
the  gold. 


"  I  am  tired  of  trying  to  read, 

dear; 
It  is  worse  to  talk  and  seem 

gay: 
There  are  some  kinds  of  sorrow, 

Effie, 
It  is  useless  to  thrust  away. 


"  Ah,  advice  may  be  wise,  my 

darling, 

But  one  always  knows  it  be- 
fore; 
And  the  reasoning  down  one's 

sorrow 

Seems  to  make  one  suffer  the 
more. 


"But   my   Effie   won't   reason, 

will  she  ? 
Or  endeavor  to  understand  ; 


A    COMFORTER. 


163 


Only  holds  up  her  mouth  to  kiss 

me, 

As  she  strokes  my  face  with 
her  hand. 


"If  you  break  your  plaything 

yourself,  dear, 
Don't  you  cry  for  it  all  the 

same'? 

I  don't  think  it  is  such  a  com- 
fort, 

One   has   only  one's   self  to 
blame. 


"  People  say  things  cannot  be 

helped,  dear, 
But  then  that  is  the  reason 

why ; 
For  if  things  could  be  helped  or 

altered, 

One  would  never  sit  down  to 
cry  : 

x. 

"  They  say,  too,  that  tears  are 

quite  useless 

To  undo,  amend,  or  restore,  — 
When  I  think  how  useless,  my 

Effie, 

Then   my  tears  only  fall  the 
more. 

XI. 

"  All  to-day  I  struggled  against 

it  ; 

But  that  does  not  make  sor- 
row cease ; 


And  now,   dear,   it   is    such   a 

comfort 
To  be  able  to  cry  in  peace. 


"  Though  wise  people  would  call 
that  folly, 

And  remonstrate  with  grave  sur- 
prise ; 

We  won't  mind  what  they  say, 

my  Effie ;  — 
We  never  professed  to  be  wise. 


"  But   my   comforter   knows   a 

lesson 
Wiser,    truer    than    all    the 

rest  :  — 

That  to  help  and  to  heal  a  sor- 
row, 

Love  and   silence  are  always 
best. 


"  Well,  who  is  my  comforter,  — 

tell  me  1 
Effie  smiles,  but  she  will  not 

speak  : 
Or  look  up  through    the    long 

curled  lashes 

That    are    shading    her    rosy 
cheek. 


Isshe  thinking  of  talking  fishes, 
The  bluebird,  or  magical  tree  ? 


164 


UNSEEN. 


Perhaps  I  am  thinking,  my  dar- 
ling, 
Of  something  that  never  can  be. 


"  You  long  —  don't  you,  dear  ? 

—  for  the  Genii, 
Who  were  slaves  of  lamps  and 

of  rings  ; 
And,  I  —  I  am  sometimes  afraid, 

dear, 
I  want  as  impossible  things. 


"  But  hark  !  there  is  Nurse  call- 

ing Effie  ! 

It  is  bedtime,  so  run  away  ; 
And  I  must  go   back,   or   the 

others 
Will  be  wondering  why  I  stay. 

XVIII. 

"  So  good  night  to  my  darling 

Effie; 
Keep  happy,  sweetheart,  and 

grow  wise  :  — 
There  's  one  kiss  for  her  golden 

ti'esses, 
And  two  for  her  sleepy  eyes." 


UNSEEN. 

THERE  are  more  things  in 
Heaven  and  Earth  than  we 

Can  dream  of,  or  than  nature 
understands ; 


We  learn  not  through  our  poor 

philosophy 
What  hidden  chords  are  touched 

by  unseen  hands. 

The  present  hour  repeats  upon 
its  strings 

Echoes  of  some  vague  dream  we 
have  forgot ; 

Dim  voices  whisper  half-remem- 
bered things, 

And  when  we  pause  to  listen  — 
answer  not. 

Forebodings  come  :  we  know  not 

how,  or  whence, 
Shadowing  a  nameless  fear  upon 

the  soul, 
And   stir  within   our   hearts   a 

subtler  sense 
Than  light  may  read,  or  wisdom 

may  control. 

And  who  can  tell  what  secret 

links  of  thought 
Bind  heart  to  heart  ?    Unspoken 

things  are  heard, 
As  if  within  our  deepest  selves 

was  brought 
The  soul,  perhaps,  of  some  un- 

uttered  word. 

But,   though   a  veil  of  shadow 

hangs  between 
That  hidden  life  and  what  we  see 

and  hear, 
Let  us  revere  the  power  of  the 

Unseen, 
And  know  a  world  of  mystery  is 

near. 


THREE  EVENINGS  IN  A  LIFE. 


165 


A 


REMEMBRANCE 
AUTUMN. 


OF 


NOTHING    stirs    the   sunny   si- 
lence, — 
Save  the  drowsy  humming  of 

the  bees 
Round  the  rich  ripe  peaches 

on  the  wall, 
And  the  south-wind   sighing 

in  the  trees, 
And  the  dead  leaves  rustling 

as  they  fall : 
While  the  swallows,   one  by 

one,  are  gathering, 
All  impatient  to  be  on  the 

wing, 

And  to  wander  from  us,  seek- 
ing 

Their  beloved  Spring ! 

Cloudless  rise  the  azure  heavens  ! 
Only    vaporous    wreaths     of 

snowy  white 
Nestle    in    the   gray   hill's 

rugged  side ; 
And   the   golden    woods   are 

bathed  in  light, 
Dying,  if  they  must,  with 

kingly  pride : 
While    the  swallows,  in  the 

blue  air  wheeling, 
Circle  now  an  eager,  flutter- 
ing band. 

Ready  to  depart  and  leave  us 
For  a  brighter  land ! 

But  a  voice  is  sounding  sadly, 
Telling  of  a  glory  that  has 
been; 


Of  a  day  that  Aided  all  too 

fast :  — 
See  afar  through  the  blue  air 

serene, 
Where  the  swallows  wing 

their  way  at  last, 
And  our  hearts  perchance  as 

sadly  wandering, 
Vainly  seeking  for  a  long- 
lost  day, 

While  we  watch   the   far-off 
swallows, 

Flee  with  them  away  ! 


THREE    EVENINGS    IN    A 
LIFE. 


YES,  it  looked  dark  and  dreary, 

That  long  and  narrow  street : 
Only  the  sound  of  the  rain, 

And  the  tramp  of  passing  feet, 
The  duller  glow  of  the  fire, 

And  gathering  mists  of  night, 
To  mark  how  slow  and  weary 

The     long     day's     cheerless 
flight.' 


Watching  the  sullen  fire, 
Hearing  the  dismal  rain, 

Drop  after  drop,  run  down 
On    the    darkening    window 
pane  : 

Chill  was  the  heart  of  Alice, 
Chill  as  that  winter  day, — 


166 


THREE  EVENINGS  IN  A  LIFE. 


For  the  star  of  her  life  had  risen 
Only  to  fade  away. 


The   voice    that    had    been    so 

strong 

To  bid  the  snare  depart, 
The  true  and  earnest  will, 

The  calm  and  steadfast  heart, 
Were  now  weighed  down  by  sor- 
row, 
Were     quivering    now    with 

pain; 
The    clear    path    now    seemed 

clouded, 
And  all  her  grief  in  vain. 

IV. 

Duty,  Right,  Truth,  who  prom- 
ised 

To  help  and  save  their  own, 
Seemed  spreading  wide  their  pin- 
ions 

To  leave  her  there  alone. 
So,  turning  from  the  Present 

To  well-known  days  of  yore, 
She  called  on  them  to  strengthen 
And    guard    her    soul    once 
more. 

v. 

She  thought  how  in  her  girlhood 

Her  life  was  given  away, 
The  solemn  promise  spoken 

She  kept  so  well  to-day ; 
How  to  her  brother  Herbert 

She  had  been  help  and  guide, 
And  how  his  artist  nature 

On  her  calm  strength  relied. 


How  through  life's  fret  and  tur- 
moil 

The  passion  and  fire  of  art 
In  him  was  soothed  and  quick- 
ened 

By  her  true  sister  heart ; 
How  future  hopes  had  always 

Been  for  his  sake  alone ; 
And   now  —  what   strange  new 

feeling 
Possessed  her  as  its  own  ? 

VII. 

Her    home  —  each    flower   that 
breathed  there, 

The  wind's  sigh,  soft  and  low, 
Each  trembling  spray  of  ivy, 

The  river's  murmuring  flow, 
The  shadow  of  the  forest, 

Sunset,  or  twilight  dim, — 
Dear  as  they  were,  were  dearer 

By  leaving  them  for  him. 


And  each  year  as  it  found  her 

In  the  dull,  feverish  town, 
Saw  self  still  more  forgotten, 

And  selfish  care  kept  down 
By  the  calm  joy  of  evening 

That  brought  him  to  her  side, 
To  warn  him  with  wise  counsel, 

Or  praise  with  tender  pride. 


Her  heart,  her  life,  her  future, 
Her  genius,  only  meant 

Another  thing  to  give  him, 
And  be  therewith  content. 


THREE  EVENINGS  IN  A  LIFE. 


167 


To-day,  what  words  had  stirred 
her, 

Her  soul  could  not  forget  ? 
What  dream  had  filled  her  spirit 

"With  strange  and  wild  regret  ? 


To  leave  him  for  another,  — 

Could  it  indeed  be  so? 
Could  it  have  cost  such  anguish 

To  bid  this  vision  go  ? 
Was  this  her  faith  1     Was  Her- 
bert 

The  second  in  her  heart  ? 
Did  it  need  all  this  struggle 

To  bid  a  dream  depart  ? 


And  yet,  within  her  spirit 

A  far-off  land  was  seen, 
A  home,  which  might  have  held 
her, 

A   love,    which    might   have 

been. 
And  Life  —  not  the  mere  being 

Of  daily  ebb  and  flow, 
But  Life  itself —  had  claimed  her, 

And  she  had  let  it  go  ! 


Within  her  heart  there  echoed 

Again  the  well-known  tone 
That  promised  this  bright  future, 

And  asked  her  for  her  own  : 
Then  words  of  sorrow,  broken 

By  half-reproachful  pain  : 
And  then  a  farewell,  spoken 

In  words  of  cold  disdain. 


XIII. 

Where  now  was  the  stern  pur- 
pose 

That  nerved  her  soul  so  long  ? 
Whence    came   the   words    she 

uttered, 

So  hard,  so  cold,  so  strong? 
What  right  had  she  to  banish 

A  hope  that  God  had  given  ? 
Why  must   she   choose   earth's 

portion, 
And  turn  aside  from  Heaven  ? 


To-day !     Was  it  this  morning  ? 

If  this  long,  fearful  strife 
Was  but  the  work  of  hours, 

What  would  be  years  of  life  ? 
Why  did  a  cruel  Heaven 

For  such  great  suffering  call  ? 
And  why — 0  still  more  cruel !  — 

Must  her  own  words  do  all  ? 


Did  she  repent  ?     O  Sorrow  ! 

Why  do  we  linger  still 
To  take  thy  loving  message, 

And  do  thy  gentle  will  ? 
See,  her  tears  fall  more  slowly, 

The  passionate  murmurs  cease, 
And  back  upon  her  spirit 

Flow  strength,  and  love,  and 
peace. 


The  fire  burns  more  brightly, 
The  rain  has  passed  away, 

Herbert  will  sec  no  shadow 
Upon  his  home  to-day : 


168 


THREE  EVENINGS  IN  A  LIFE. 


Only  that  Alice  greets  him 
With  doubly  tender  care, 

Kissing  a  fonder  blessing 
Down  on  his  golden  hair. 


n. 


THE  Stndio  is  deserted, 

Palette  and  brush  laid  by, 
The  sketch  rests  on  the  easel, 

The  paint  is  scarcely  dry  ; 
And  Silence  —  who  seems  always 

Within  her  depths  to  bear 
The  next  sound  that  will  utter  — 

Now  holds  a  dumb  despair. 


So  Alice  feels  it :  listening 

With  breathless,  stony  fear, 
Waiting  the  dreadful  summons 

Each    minute    brings    more 

near : 

When  the  young  life,  now  ebb- 
ing, 

Shall  fail,  and  pass  away 
Into  that  mighty  shadow 

Who  shrouds  the  house  to-day. 


But  why — when  the  sick-cham- 
ber 

Is  on  the  upper  floor  — 
Why  dares  not  Alice  enter 

Within  the  close-shut  door  ? 
If  he  —  her  all  —  her  Brother, 

Lies  dying  in  that  gloom, 


What  strange  mysterious  power 
Has  sent  her  from  the  room  *? 


It  is  not  one  week's  anguish 

That  can  have  changed  her  so ; 
Joy  has  not  died  here  lately, 

Struck   down    by   one  quick 

blow ; 
But  cruel  months  have  needed 

Their  long  relentless  chain, 
To  teach  that  shrinking  manner 

Of  helpless,  hopeless  pain. 


The  struggle  was  scarce  over 

Last     Christmas      eve      had 

brought ; 
The  fibres  still  were  quivering 

Of  the  one  wounded  thought, 
When    Herbert  —  who,    uncon- 
scious, 

Had  guessed  no  inward  strife — 
Bade  her,  in  pride  and  pleasure, 

Welcome  his  fair  young  wife. 


Bade  her  rejoice,  and  smiling, 
Although  his  eyes  were  dim, 
Thanked  God  he  thus  could  pay 

her 

The  care  she  gave  to  him. 
This  fresh  bright  life  would  bring 

her 

A  new  and  joyous  fate  — 
O  Alice,  check  the  murmur 
That   cries,    "  Too  late !  too 
late  ! " 


THREE  EVENINGS  IN  A  LIFE. 


169 


Too    late!       Could    she    have 
known  it 

A  few  short  weeks  before, 
That  his  life  was  completed, 

And  needing  hers  no  more, 
She  might  —  O  sad  repining  ! 

What  "  might  have  been  "  for- 
get; 
"  It  was  not  "  should  suffice  us 

To  stifle  vain  regret. 


He  needed  her  no  longer, 

Each  day  it  grew  more  plain  ; 
First  with  a  startled  wonder, 

Then  with  a  wondering  pain. 
Love  :  why,  his  wife  best  gave  it ; 

Comfort :  durst  Alice  speak 
Or  counsel,  when  resentment 

Flushed  on  the  young  wife's 
cheek  1 


No  more  long  talks  by  firelight 

Of  childish  times  long  past, 
And  dreams  of  future  greatness 

Which  he  must  reach  at  last ; 
Dreams,  where  her  purer  instinct 

With  truth  unerring  told, 
Where  was  the  worthless  gilding, 

And  where  refined  gold. 


Slowly,  but  surely  ever, 
Dora's  poor  jealous  pride, 

Which  she  called  love  for  Her- 
bert, 
Drove  Alice  from  his  side ; 


And,  spite  of  nervous  effort 
To  share  their  altered  life, 

She  felt  a  check  to  Herbert, 
A  burden  to  his  wife. 


This  was  the  least ;  for  Alice 

Feared,  dreaded,  knew  at  length 
How  much  his  nature  owed  her 

Of    truth,   and    power,    and 

strength ; 
And  watched  the  daily  failing 

Of  all  his  nobler  part : 
Low  aims,  weak  purpose,  telling 

In  lower,  weaker  art. 


And  now,  when  he  is  dying, 

The  last  words  she  could  hear 
Must  not  be  hers,  but  given 

The  bride  of  one  short  year. 
The  last  care  is  another's  ; 

The  last  prayer  must  not  bo 
The  one  they  learnt  together 

Beside  their  mother's  knee. 

XIII. 

Summoned  at  last :  she  kisses 

The  clay-cold  stiffening  hand  ; 
And,  reading  pleading  efforts 

To  make  her  understand, 
Answers,  with  solemn  promise, 

In  clear  but  trembling  tone, 
To  Dora's  life  henceforward 

She  will  devote  her  own. 

XIV. 

Now  all  is  over.     Alice 
Dares  not  remain  to  weep, 


170 


THREE  EVENINGS  IN  A  LIFE. 


But  soothes  the  frightened  Dora 

Into  a  sobbing  sleep. 
The  poor  weak  child   will  need 
her :  .  .  . 

O,  who  can  dare  complain, 
When  God  sends  a  new  Duty 

To  comfort  each  new  Pain ! 


III. 
i. 

THE  House  is  all  deserted 

In  the  dim  evening  gloom, 
Only  one  figure  passes 

Slowly  from  room  to  room  ; 
And,  pausing  at  each  doorway, 

Seems  gathering  up  again 
Within  her  heart  the  relics 

Of  bygone  joy  and  pain. 


There  is  an  earnest  longing 

In  those  who  onward  gaze, 
Looking  with  weary  patience 

Towards  the  coming  days. 
There  is  a  deeper  longing, 

More  sad,  more  strong,  more 

keen  : 

Those  know  it  who  look  back- 
ward, 

And  yearn  for  what  has  been. 


At  every  hearth  she  pauses, 
Touches     each    well-known 
chair ; 

Gazes  from  every  window, 
Lingers  on  every  stair. 


What  have  these  months  brought 
Alice 

Now  one  more  year  is  past  ? 
This  Christmas  eve  shall  tell  us, 

The  third  one  and  the  last. 

IV. 
The  wilful,  wayward  Dora, 

In  those  first  weeks  of  grief, 
Could  seek  and  find  in  Alice 

Strength,  soothing,  and  relief. 
And  Alice  —  last  sad  comfort 

True  woman-heart  can  take  — 
Had  something  still  to  suffer 

And  bear  for  Herbert's  sake. 

v. 

Spring,  with  her  western  breezes, 

From  Indian  islands  bore 
To  Alice  news  that  Leonard 
Would   seek  his    home   once 

more. 

What  was  it, — joy,  or  sorrow? 
What  were  they,  —  hopes,  or 

fears  ? 
That   flushed   her   checks   with 

crimson, 
And  filled  her  eyes  with  tears  ? 


He  came.     And  who  so  kindly 
Could  ask  and  hear  her  tell 
Herbert's  last  hours  ;  for  Leon- 
ard 
Had   known  and   loved   him 

well. 

Daily  he  came ;  and  Alice, 
Poor  weary  heart,  at  length, 


THREE  EVENINGS  IN  A  LIFE. 


171 


Weighed  down  by  others'  weak- 
ness, 
Could  lean  upon  his  strength. 

VII. 

Yet  not  the  voice  of  Leonard 

Could  her  true  care  beguile, 
That  turned  to  watch,  rejoicing, 

Dora's  reviving  smile. 
So,  from  that  little  household 

The  worst  gloom  passed  away, 
The  one  bright  hour  of  evening 

Lit  up  the  livelong  day. 

via. 

Days  passed.     The  golden  sum- 
mer 

In  sudden  heat  bore  down 
Its  blue,  bright,  glowing  sweet- 
ness 

Upon  the  scorching  town. 
And  sights  and  sounds  of  country 

Came  in  the  warm  soft  tune 
Sung  by  the  honeyed  breezes 
Borne  on  the  wings  of  June. 


One  twilight  hour,  but  earlier 
Than  usual,  Alice  thought 
She  knew   the  fresh  sweet  fra- 
grance 
Of     flowers     that     Leonard 

brought ; 

Through  opened  doors  and  win- 
dows 

It  stole  up  through  the  gloom, 
And  with  appealing  sweetness 
Drew  Alice  from  her  room. 


Yes,  he  was  there  ;  and,  pausing 

Just  near  the  opened  door, 
To  check  her  heart's  quick  beat- 
ing, 
She  heard  —  and  paused  still 

more  — 

His     low     voice  —  Dora's    an- 
swers — 

His  pleading  —  Yes,  she  knew 
The  tone  —  the  words  —  the  ac- 
cents ; 
She  once  had  heard  them  too. 


"  Would    Alice    blame    her  1  " 

Leonard's 

Low,  tender  answer  came  : 
"  Alice  was  far  too  noble 

To  think  or  dream  of  blame." 
"And   was   he    sure   he   loved 

her  ?  " 

"  Yes,  with  the  one  love  given 
Once  in  a  lifetime  only, 

With  one  soul  and  one  heav- 
en !" 


Then    came    a  plaintive    mur- 
mur, — 

"  Dora  had  once  been  told 
That  he  and  Alice  —  "  "Dear- 
est, 

Alice  is  far  too  cold 
To  love ;  and  I,  my  Dora, 

If  once  I  fancied  so, 
It  was  a  brief  delusion, 

And  over  —  Ion";  a>;o." 


172 


THE    WIND. 


Between  the  Past  and  Present, 

On  thatblcak  moment's  height, 
She  stood.     As  some  lost  trav- 
eller, 

By  a  quick  flash  of  light 
Seeing  a  gulf  before  him, 

With  dizzy,  sick  despair, 
Heels  backward,  but  to  find  it 

A  deeper  chasm  there. 


The  twilight  grew  still  darker, 
The    fragrant    flowers    more 

sweet, 

The  stars  shone  out  in  heaven, 
The  lamps  gleamed  down  the 

street ; 
And  hours  passed  in  dreaming 

Over  their  new-found  fate, 
Ere  they  could  think  of  wonder- 
ing 
Why  Alice  was  so  late. 


She  came,  and  calmly  listened  ; 

In  vain  they  strove  to  trace 
If  Herbert's  memory  shadowed 

In  grief  upon  her  face. 
No   blame,  no   wonder   showed 
there, 

No  feeling  could  be  told ; 
Her  voice  was  not  less  steady, 

Her  manner  not  more  cold. 


They  could  not  hear  the  anguish 
That  broke  in  words  of  pain 


Through  the  calm  summer  mid- 
night, — 

"  My  Herbert —  mine  again  ! " 
Yes,  they  have  once  been  parted, 

But  this  day  shall  restore 
The  long-lost  one :  she    claims 

him  ; 

"  My    Herbert  —  mine    once 
more  !  " 


Now  Christmas  eve  returning 

Saw  Alice  stand  beside 
The  altar,  greeting  Dora, 

Again  a  smiling  bride  ; 
And  TIOW  the  gloomy  evening 

Sees  Alice  pale  and  worn, 
Leaving  the  house  forever, 

To  wander  out  forlorn. 

XVIII. 

Forlorn  —  nay,  not  so.  Anguish 

Shall  do  its  work  at  length ; 
Her  soul,  passed  through  the  fire, 

Shall  gain  still  purer  strength. 
Somewhere  there  waits  for  Alice 

An  earnest,  noble  part ; 
And   meanwhile    God   is    with 
her,  — 

God,  and  her  own  true  heart! 


THE   WIND. 

THE  wind  went  forth  o'er  land 

and  sea, 
Loud  and  free ; 


EXPECTATION. 


173 


Foaming  waves  leapt  op  to 

meet  it, 
Stately  pines  bowed  down  to 

greet  it ; 

While  the  wailing  sea 
And  the  forest's  murmured  sigh 

Joined  the  cry 

Of  the  wind  that  swept  o'er  land 
and  sea. 


The  wind  that  blew  upon  the  sea 

Fierce  and  free, 
Cast  the  bark  upon  the  shore, 
Whence  it  sailed  the  night  be- 
fore 

Full  of  hope  and  glee  ; 
And  the  cry  of  pain  and  death 

Was  but  a  breath, 

Through  the  wind  that  roared 

upon  the  sea. 

The  wind  was  whispering  on  the 

lea 

Tenderly ; 

But  the  white  rose  felt  it  pass, 
And  the  fragile  stalks  of  grass 

Shook  with  fear  to  see 
All  her  trembling  petals  shed, 

As  it  fled 

So  gently  by,  —  the  wind  upon 
the  lea. 

Blow,  thou  wind,  upon  the  sea 

Fierce  and  free, 
And  a  gentler  message  send, 
Where  frail  flowers  and  grasses 

bend, 
On  the  sunny  lea ; 


For  thy  bidding  still  is  one, 

Be  it  done 

In  tenderness  or  wrath,  on  land 
or  sea ! 


EXPECTATION. 

THE    King's    three    daughters 

stood  on  the  terrace, 
The  hanging  terrace,  so  broad 

and  green, 
Which  keeps  the  sea  from  the 

marble  Palace : 
There  was  Princess   May,   and 

Princess  Alice, 

And    the     youngest     Princess, 
Gwendoline. 

Sighed  Princess  May,  "  Will  it 

last  much  longer, 
Time  throbs  so   slow  and   my 

Heart  so  quick ; 
And  O,  how  long  is  the  day  in 

dying ! 
Weary   am   I    of  waiting   and 

sighing, 
For  Hope   deferred   makes   the 

spirit  sick." 

But  Princess  Gwendoline  smiled 

and  kissed  her  :  — 
"  Am  I  not  sadder  than  you,  my 

Sister  ? 

Expecting  joy  is  a  happy  pain. 
The  Future's  fathomless  mine  of 

treasures, 


174 


AN  IDEAL. 


All  countless  hordes  of  possible 

pleasures, 
Might  bring  their  store  to  my 

feet  in  vain." 

Sighed  Princess  Alice  as  night 
grew  nearer  :  — 

"  So  soon,  so  soon,  is  the  day- 
light fled ! 

And  O,  how  fast  comes  the  dark 
to-morrow, 

Who  hides,  perhaps,  in  her  veil 
of  sorrow 

The  terrible  hour  I  wait  and 
dread ! " 

But  Princess  Gwendoline  kissed 

her,  sighing  :  — 
"  It  is  only  Life  that  can  fear 

dying ; 

Possible  loss  means  possible  gain. 
Those  who  still  dread  are  not 

quite  forsaken  ; 
But  not  to  fear,  because  all  is 

taken, 
Is  the  loneliest  depth  of  human 

pain." 


AN   IDEAL. 

WHILE  the  gray  mists  of  early 

dawn 

Were  lingering  round  the  hill, 
And  the  dew  was  still  upon  the 

flowers, 

And  the  earth  lay  calm  and 
still, 


A  winge'd  Spirit  came  to  me, 
Noble,  and  radiant,  and  free. 

Folding   his    blue   and   shining 

wings, 

He  laid  his  hand  on  mine. 
I  know  not  if  I  felt,  or  heard 

The  mystic  word  divine, 
Which  woke  the  trembling  air 

to  sighs, 

And  shone  from  out  his  starry 
eyes. 

The  word  he  spoke  within  my 

heart 

Stirred  life  unknown  before, 
And  cast  a  spell  upon  my  soul 

To  chain  it  evermore ; 
Making  the  cold,  dull  earth  look 

bright, 

And  skies  flame  out  in  sapphire 
light. 

When  noon  ruled  from  the  heav- 
ens, and  man 
Through  busy  day  toiled  on, 

My  Spirit  drooped   his  shining 

wings ; 
His  radiant  smile  was  gone  ; 

His  voice  had  ceased,  his  grace 
had  flown, 

His  hand  grew  cold  within  my 
own. 

Bitter,  O  bitter  tears  I  wept, 
Yet  still  I  held  his  hand, 

Hoping  with  vague  unreasoning 

hope  : 
I  would  not  understand 


OUR  DEAD. 


175 


That  this  pale  Spirit  nevermore 
Could  be  what  he  had  been  before. 

Could  it  be  so  ?    My  heart  stood 

still. 

Yet  he  was  by  my  side. 
I  strove ;  but   my   despair   was 

vain  ; 

Vain  too  was  love  and  pride. 
Could   he  have  changed  to  me 

so  soon  ? 
My  day  was  only  at  its  noon. 

Now  stars  are  rising  one  by  one, 

Through  the  dim  evening  air  ; 

Near  me  a  household  Spirit  waits, 

With  tender  loving  care  ; 
He  speaks  and  smiles,  but  never 

sings, 

Long  since  he  lost  his  shining 
wings. 

With  thankful,  true   content,  I 

know 

This  is  the  better  way  ; 
Is  not  a  faithful  spirit  mine  — 
Mine     still  —  at     close    of 

day  ?  .  .  . 

Yet  will  my  foolish  heart  repine 
For  that  bright  morning  dream 
of  mine. 


OUR   DEAD. 

NOTHING  is  our  own  :  we  hold 

our  pleasures 
Just  a  little  while,  ere  they  are 

fled: 


One  by  one  life  robs  us  of  our 

treasures ; 
Nothing  is  our  own  except  our 

Dead. 

They  are  ours,  and  hold  in  faith- 
ful keeping, 

Safe  forever,  all  they  took  away. 

Cruel  life  can  never  stir  that 
sleeping, 

Cruel  time  can  never  seize  that 

Prey- 
Justice  pales  ;  truth  fades  ;  stars 
fall  from  heaven  ; 

Human  are  the  great  whom  we 
revere : 

No  true  crown  of  honor  can  be 
given, 

Till  we  place  it  on  a  funeral  bier. 

How  the  Children  leave  us  :  and 

no  traces 
Linger   of  that    smiling    angel 

band ; 
Gone,  forever  gone ;  and  in  their 

their  places 
Weary  men  and  anxious  women 

stand. 

Yet  we  have  some  little  ones, 

still  ours ; 
They  have  kept  the  baby  smile 

we  know, 
Which  we  kissed  one  day,  and 

hid  with  flowers, 
On  their  dead  white  faces,  long 

ago. 


176 


A    WO  MAWS  ANSWER. 


When  our  Joy  is  lost  —  and  life 

will  take  it  — 
Then   no   memory  of   the  past 

remains ; 
Save  with  some  strange,  cruel 

sting,  to  make  it 
Bitterness   beyond    all    present 

pains. 

Death,    more    tender  -  hearted, 

leaves  to  sorrow 
Still  the  radiant  shadow,   fond 

regret : 
We  shall  find,  in  some  far,  bright 

to-morrow, 
Joy  that  he  has  taken,  living  yet. 

Is  Love  ours,  and  do  we  dream 
we  know  it, 

Bound  with  all  our  heart-strings, 
all  our  own  ? 

Any  cold  and  cruel  dawn  may 
show  it, 

Shattered,  desecrated,  over- 
thrown. 

Only  the  dead  Hearts  forsake  us 
never ; 

Death's  last  kiss  has  been  the 
mystic  sign 

Consecrating  Love  our  own  for- 
ever, 

Crowning  it  eternal  and  divine. 

So  when  Fate  would  fain  besiege 

our  city, 
Dim    our  gold,   or    make   our 

flowers  fall, 


Death,  the  Angel,  comes  in  love 

and  pity, 
And,  to  save  our  treasures,  claims 

them  all. 


A   WOMAN'S   ANSWER. 

I  WILL  not  let  you  say  a  Wo- 
man's part 
Must  be  to  give  exclusive  love 

alone ; 
Dearest,  although  I  love  you  so, 

my  heart 

Answers    a  thousand   claims 
besides  your  own. 


I  love  —  what  do  I  not  love? 

earth  and  air 
Find  space  within  my  heart, 

and  myriad  things 
You  would  not  deign  to  heed  are 

cherished  there, 
And   vibrate   on  its  very  in- 
most strings. 


I  love  the  Summer  with  her  ebb 

and  flow 
Of  light,    and    warmth,    and 

music,  that  have  nurst 
Her  tender  buds  to  blossoms  .  .  . 

and  you  know 

It  was  in  summer  that  I  saw 
you  first. 


A    WOMAN'S  ANSWER. 


177 


I  love  the  Winter  clearly,  too,  .  .  . 

but  then 

I  owe  it  so  much  ;  on  a  win- 
ter's day, 

Bleak,  cold,  and  stormy,  you  re- 
turned again, 

When   you    had    been   those 
weary  months  away. 

I  love  the  Stars  like  friends  ;  so 

many  nights 
I  gazed  at  them,  when  you 

were  far  from  me, 
Till  I  grew  blind  with  tears  .... 

those  far-off  lights 
Could  watch    you,   whom    I 
longed  in  vain  to  see. 

I  love  the  Flowers  ;  happy  hours 

lie 
Shut  up  within   their   petals 

close  and  fast : 
You  have  forgotten,  dear;  but 

they  and  I 

Keep  every  fragment   of  the 
golden  Past 

I  love,  too,  to  be  loved ;  all  lov- 
ing praise 
Seems  like  a  crown  upon  my 

Life,  —  to  make 
It  better  worth  the  giving,  and 

to  raise 

Still  nearer  to  your  own  the 
heart  you  take. 

I  love  all  good  and  noble  souls  ; 

—  I  heard 

One  speak  of  you  but  lately, 
and  for  days, 


Only  to  think  of  it,  my  soul  was 

stirred 

In   tender   memory  of    such 
generous  praise. 

I  love  all  those  who  love  you  ; 

all  who  owe 
Comfort  to  you:  and  I  can 

find  regret 
Even   for   those   poorer    hearts 

who  once  could  know 
And  once  could  love  you,  and 
can  now  forget. 

Well,  is  my  heart  so  narrow,  — 

I,  who  spare 
Love  for  all  these  ?     Do  I  not 

even  hold 

My  favorite  books  in  special  ten- 
der care, 

And   prize   them   as  a  miser 
does  his  gold  ? 

The  Poets  that  you  used  to  read 

to  me 
While  summer  twilights  faded 

in  the  sky ; 
But  most  of  all  I  think  Aurora 

Leigh, 

Because  —  because  —  do   you 
remember  why  ? 

Will  you  be  jealous  ?     Did  you 

guess  before 
I   loved   so   many  things  ?  — 

Still  you  the  best :  — 
Dearest,  remember    that  I  love 

you  more, 

O,   more   a   thousand   times, 
than  all  the  rest ! 


178 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  FAITHFUL  SOUL. 


THE      STORY      OF      THE 
FAITHFUL   SOUL. 

FOUNDED  ON  AS  OLD  FRENCH 
LEGEND. 

THE  fettered  Spirits  linger 

In  purgatorial  pain, 
With  penal  fires  effacing 

Their  last  faint  earthly  stain, 
Which  Life's  imperfect  sorrow 

Had  tried  to  cleanse  in  vain. 

Yet,  on  each  feast  of  Mary 

Their  sorrow  finds  release, 
For   the   Great  Archangel   Mi- 
chael 

Comes  down  and  bids  it  cease ; 
And   the   name   of   these   brief 

respites 
Is  called  "  Our  Lady's  Peace." 

Yet  once — so  runs  the  Legend  — 
When  the  Archangel  came, 

And  all  these  holy  spirits 
Rejoiced  at  Mary's  name, 

One  voice  alone  was  wailing, 
Still  wailing  on  the  same. 

And  though  a  great  Te  Deum 
The  happy  echoes  woke, 

This  one  discordant  wailing 
Through    the     sweet    voices 
broke : 

So  when  St.  Michael  questioned, 
Thus  the  poor  spirit  spoke  :  — 

"  I  am  not  cold  or  thankless, 
Although  I  still  complain ; 

I  prize  our  Lady's  blessing, 
Although  it  comes  in  vain 


To  still  my  bitter  anguish, 
Or  quench  my  ceaseless  pain. 

"  On  earth  ar heart  that  loved  me 
Still    lives    and    mourns   me 
there, 

And  the  shadow  of  his  anguish 
Is  more  than  I  can  bear ; 

All  the  torment  that  I  suffer 
Is  the  thought  of  his  despair. 

"  The  evening  of  my  bridal 
Death  took  my  Life  away ; 

Not  all  Love's  passionate  plead- 
ing 
Could  gain  an  hour's  delay. 

And  he  I  left  has  suffered 
A  whole  year  since  that  day. 

"  If  I  could  only  see  him,  — 

If  I  could  only  go 
And  speak  one  word  of  comfort 

And  solace,  — then  I  know 
He  would  endure  with  patience, 

And  strive  against  his  woe." 

Thus  the  Archangel  answered : — 
"  Your  time  of  pain  is  brief, 

And  soon  the  peace  of  Heaven 
Will  give  you  full  relief; 

Yet  if  his  earthly  comfort 
So  much  outweighs  your  grief 

"  Then  through  a  special  mercy 

I  offer  you  this  grace,  — 
You  may  seek  him  who  mourna 

y°n> 

And  look  upon  his  face, 
And  speak  to  him  of  comfort 
For  one  short  minute's  space. 


A    CONTRAST. 


179 


"  But  when  that  time  is  ended, 
Return  here,  and  remain 

A  thousand  years  in  torment, 
A  thousand  years  in  pain  : 

Thus  dearly  must  you  purchase 
The  comfort  he  will  gain." 


The  Lime-trees'  shade  at  evening 
Is  spreading  broad  and  wide ; 

Beneath  their  fragrant  arches, 
Pace  slowly,  side  by  side, 

In  low  and  tender  converse, 
A  Bridegroom  and  his  Bride. 


The  night  is  calm  and  stilly, 

No  other  sound  is  there 
Except  their  happy  voices : 

What  is  that  cold  bleak  air 
That  passes  through  the  Lime- 
trees, 

And   stirs   the   Bridegroom's 
hair? 


While  one  low  cry  of  anguish, 
Like  the  last  dying  wail 

Of  some  dumb,  hunted  creature, 
Is  borne  upon  the  gale  :  — 

Why  does  the  Bridegroom  shud- 
der 
And  turn  so  deathly  pale  ? 

*         *         *         * 

Near  Purgatory's  entrance 
The  radiant  Angels  wait ; 

It  was  the  great  St.  Michael 
Who  closed  that  gloomy  gate, 

When  the  poor  wandering  spirit 
Came  back  to  meet  her  fate. 


"  Pass  on,"  thus  spoke  the  An- 
gel: 
"  Heaven's  joy  is   deep  and 

vast; 
Pass  on,  pass  on,  poor  Spirit, 

For  Heaven  is  yours  at  last ; 
In  that  one  minute's  anguish 
Your    thousand    years    have 
passed." 


A   CONTRAST. 

CAN  you  open  that  ebony  Cas- 
ket ? 

Look,  this  is  the  key :  but  stay, 
Those  are  only  a  few  old  letters 
Which  I  keep,  —  to  burn  some 
day. 

Yes,  that  Locket  is  quaint  and 

ancient ; 

But  leave  it,  dear,  with  the  ring, 
And  give  me  the  little  Portrait 
Which   hangs   by  a  crimson 
string. 

I  have  never  opened  that  Casket 
Since,  many  long  years  ago, 

It  was  sent  me  back  in  anger 
By  one  whom  I  used  to  know. 

But  I  want  you  to  see  the  Por- 
trait : 

I  wonder  if  you  can  trace 
A  look  of  that  smiling  creature 

Left  now  in  my  faded  face. 


180 


A   CONTRAST. 


It   was   like   me  once;  but   re- 
member 

The  weary,  relentless  years, 
And   Life,  with  its  fierce  brief 

tempests, 

And   its    long,  long   rain   of 
tears. 

Is  it  strange  to  call  it  my  Por- 
trait ? 
Nay,  smile,  dear,  for  well  you 

may, 

To  think  of  that  radiant  Vision 
And  of  what  I  ain  to-day. 

"With  restless,  yet  confident  long- 
ing, 
How  those  blue  eyes  seem  to 

gaze 

Into  deep  and  exhaustless  treas- 
ures, 
All  hid  in  the  coming  days. 

With  that  trust  which  leans  on 

the  Future, 
And  counts  on  her  promised 

store, 
Until    she    has    taught    us    to 

tremble 

And  hope,  —  but  to  trust  no 
more. 

How   that   young,   light    heart 

would  have  pitied 
Me  now  —  if  her  dreams  had 

shown 

A  quiet  and  weary  woman 
With  all  her  illusions  flown. 


Yet  I  —  who  shall  soon  be  rest: 

ing, 
And  have  passed  the  hardest 

part  — 
Can  look   back   with   a  deeper 

P'ty 

On    that  young,  unconscious 
heart. 


It  is  strange ;  but  Life's  currents 

drift  us 

So  surely  and  swiftly  on, 
That    we    scarcely    notice    the 

changes, 

And    how    many   things    are 
gone  : 


And  forget,  while  to-day  absorbs 

us, 

How   old  mysteries    are   un- 
sealed ; 

How  the  old,  old  ties  are  loosened, 

And  the  old,  old  wounds  are 

healed. 


And  we  say  that  our  Life  is  fleet- 
ing 
Like  a  story  that   Time  has 

told; 
But    we    fancy   that    we  —  we 

only  — 
Are  j  ust  what  we  were  of  old. 


So  now  and  then  it  is  wisdom 
To  gaze,  as  I  do  to-day, 

At  a  half-forgotten  relic 

Of  a  Time  that  is  passed  away. 


THE  BE  IDES  DREAM. 


181 


The  very  look  of  that  Portrait, 
The    perfume   that    seems  to 

cling 

To  those  fragile  and  faded  let- 
ters, 
And  the  Locket,  and  the  Eing, 

If  they  only  stirred  in  my  spirit 
Forgotten  pleasure  and  pain,  — 

Why,  memory  is  often  bitter, 
And  almost  always  in  vain  ; 

But  the  contrast  of  bygone  hours 
Comes  to  rend  a  veil  away,  — 

And  I  marvel  to  see  the  stranger 
Who  is  living  in  me  to-day. 


THE   BEIDE'S   DREAM. 

THE  stars  are  gleaming ; 

The  maiden  sleeps,  — 
What  is  she  dreaming  ? 

For  see  —  she  weeps. 
By  her  side  is  an  Angel 

With  folded  wings  ; 
While  the  Maiden  slumbers, 

The  Angel  sings  : 
He  sings  of  a  Bridal, 

Of  Love,  of  Pain, 
Of  a  heart  to  be  given,  — 

And  all  in  vain  ; 
(See,  her  cheek  is  flushing, 

As  if  with  pain  ;) 
He  telleth  of  sorrow, 

Regrets  and  fears, 
And  the  few  vain  pleasures 

We  buy  with  tears ; 


And  the  bitter  lesson 
We  learn  from  years. 

The  stars  are  gleaming 

tTpon  her  brow : 
What  is  she  dreaming 

So  calmly  now  ? 
By  her  side  is  the  Angel 

With  folded  wings ; 
She  smiles  in  her  slumber 

The  while  he  sings. 
He  sings  of  a  Bridal, 

Of  Love  divine ; 
Of  a  heart  to  be  laid 

On  a  sacred  shrine  ; 
Of  a  crown  of  glory, 

Where  seraphs  shine; 
Of  the  deep,  long  rapture 

The  chosen  know 
Who  forsake  for  Heaven 

Vain  joys  below, 
Who  desire  no  pleasure, 

And  fear  no  woe. 

The  Bells  are  ringing, 

The  sun  shines  clear, 
The  Choir  is  singing, 

The  guests  are  here. 
Before  the  High  Altar 

Behold  the  Bride ; 
And  a  mournful  Angel 

Is  by  her  side. 
She  smiles,  all  content 

With  her  chosen  lot,  — 
(Is  her  last  night's  dreaming 

So  soon  forgot  1) 
And  oh,  may  the  Angel 

Forsake  her  not ! 
For  on  her  small  hand 

There  glitters  plain 


182 


THE  ANGEL'S  BIDDING. 


The  first  sad  link 

Of  a  life-long  chain  ;  — 
And  she  needs  his  guiding 

Through  paths  of  pain. 


THE   ANGEL'S  BIDDING. 

NOT  a  sound  is  heard   in   the 

Convent ; 

The  Vesper  Chant  is  sung, 
The  sick  have  all  been  tended, 
The  poor  nun's  toils  are  ended 
Till  the  Matin  bell  has  rung. 
All  is  still,  save  the  Clock,  that 

is  ticking 

So  loud  in  the  frosty  air, 
And   the  soft  snow,  falling  as 

gently 
As  an  answer  to  a  prayer. 

But    an    Angel    whispers, 

"  O  Sister, 
You  must  rise  from  your 

bed  to  pray; 

In  the  silent,  deserted  chapel, 
You    must   kneel   till    the 

dawn  of  day ; 
For,   far  on   the    desolate 

moorland, 
So  dreary,  and  bleak,  and 

white, 
There  is  one,  all  alone  and 

helpless, 
In  peril  of  death  to-night. 

"  No  sound  on  the  moorland  to 

guide  him, 
No  star  in  the  murky  air ; 


And  he  thinks  of  his  home  and 

his  loved  ones 

With    the   tenderness   of  de- 
spair ; 
He  has  wandered  for  hours  in 

the  snow-drift, 
And   he  strives   to  stand   in 

vain, 
And  so  lies  down  to  dream  of 

his  children, 
And  never  to  rise  again. 
Then    kneel   in   the   silent 

chapel 

Till   the   dawn  of  to-mor- 
row's sun, 
And  ask  of  the  Lord  you 

worship 
For  the  life  of  that  desolate 

one ; 
And  the  smiling  eyes  of  his 

children 
Will    gladden     his    heart 

again, 
And  the  grateful  tears  of 

God's  poor  ones 
Will  fall  on  your  soul  like 
rain ! 


"  Yet,  leave  him  alone  to  perish, 
And  the  grace  of  your  God 

implore, 
With  all  the  strength  of  your 

spirit, 

For  one  who  needs  it  more. 
Far  away,  in  the  gleaming  city, 
Amid  perfume,  and  song,  and 

light, 

A  soul  that  Jesus  has  ransomed 
Is  in  peril  of  sin  to-night. 


SPRING. 


183 


"  The  Tempter  is  close  beside  him, 

And  his  danger  is  all  forgot, 
And  the  far-off  voices  of  child- 
hood 
Call  aloud,  but  he  hears  them 

not; 
He   sayeth  no  prayer,  and  his 

mother  — 

He  thinks  not  of  her  to-day, 
And   he   will   not   look   up   to 

heaven, 

And    his   Angel    is    turning 
away. 

"  Then  pray  for  a  soul  in  peril, 
A  soul  for  which  Jesus  died ; 
Ask,  by  the  cross  that  bore  Him, 
And  by  her  who  stood  beside ; 
And   the   Angels   of  God   will 

thank  you, 
And  bend  from  their  thrones 

of  light, 

To  tell  you  that  Heaven  rejoices 
At  the  deed  you  have  done  to- 
night." 


SPRING. 

HARK  !  the  hours  are  softly  call- 
ing, 

Bidding  Spring  arise, 
To  listen  to  the  rain-drops  falling 

From  the  cloudy  skies, 
To    listen    to    Earth's    weary 

voices, 
Louder  every  day, 


Bidding  her  no  longer  linger 

On  her  charmed  way  ; 
But  hasten  to  her  task  of  beauty 

Scarcely  yet  begun ; 
By  the  first  bright  day  of  Summer 

It  should  all  be  done. 
She  has  yet  to  loose  the  fountain 

From  its  iron  chain  ; 
And  to  make  the  barren  moun- 
tain 

Green  and  bright  again  ; 
She  must  clear  the  snow  that 
lingers 

Round  the  stalks  away, 
And  let  the   snow-drop's   trem- 
bling whiteness 

See  the  light  of  day. 
She  must  watch,  and  warm,  and 
cherish 

Every  blade  of  green, 
Till  the  tender  grass  appearing 

From  the  earth  is  seen  ; 
She  must  bring  the  golden  crocus 

From  her  hidden  store ; 
She  must  spread  broad  showers 
of  daisies 

Each  day  more  and  more. 
In    each    hedge-row   she    must 
hasten 

Cowslips  sweet  to  set; 
Primroses  in  rich  profusion, 

With  bright  dew-drops  wet, 
And  under  every  leaf,  in  shadow 

Hide  a  violet ! 
Every  tree  within  the  forest 

Must  be  decked  anew  ; 
And  the  tender  buds  of  promise 

Should  be  peeping  through, 
Folded  deep,  and  almost  hidden, 

Leaf  by  leaf  beside, 


184 


EVENING  HYMN. 


What  will  make  the  Summer's 

glory, 

And  the  Autumn's  pride. 
She  must  weave  the  loveliest  car- 
pets, 

Checkered  sun  and  shade, 
Every  wood  must  have  such  path- 
ways, 

Laid  in  every  glade ; 
She     must      hang      laburnum 

branches 

On  each  arche'd  bough  ;  — 
And  the  white  and  purple  lilac 

Should  be  waving  now  ; 
She  must  breathe,  and  cold  winds 

vanish 

At  her  breath  away ; 
And  then  load  the  air  around  her 

With  the  scent  of  May  ! 
Listen    then,    O    Spring !    nor 

linger 

On  thy  charmed  way  ; 
Have  pity  on  thy  prisoned  flowers 

Wearying  for  the  day. 
Listen  to  the  rain-drops  falling 

From  the  cloudy  skies  ; 
Listen  to  the  hours  calling, 
Bidding  thee  arise. 


EVENING  HYMN. 

THE  shadows  of  the  evening 
hours 

Fall  from  the  darkening  sky  ; 
Upon  the  fragrance  of  the  flowers 

The  dews  of  evening  lie ; 


Before   thy  throne,   O  Lord  of 

heaven, 

We  kneel  at  close  of  day  ; 
Look  on   thy  children  from  on 

high, 
And  hear  us  while  we  pray. 

The    sorrows   of  thy   servants, 
Lord, 

0  do  not  thou  despise ; 
But  let  the  incense  of  our  prayers 

Before  thy  mercy  rise  ; 
The   brightness   of  the  coming 
night 

Upon  the  darkness  rolls  : 
With  hopes  of  future  glory  chase 

The  shadows  on  our  souls. 

Slowly  the  rays  of  daylight  fade ; 

So  fade  within  our  heart 
The  hopes  in  earthly  love  andjoy, 

That  one  by  one  depart : 
Slowly  the  bright  stars,  one  by 
one, 

Within  the  heavens  shine ;  — 
Give  us,  O  Lord,  fresh  hopes  in 
Heaven, 

And  trust  in  things  divine. 

Let  peace,  0  Lord,  thy  peace,  O 

God, 

Upon  our  souls  descend ; 
From  midnight  fears  and  perils, 

thou 

Our  trembling  hearts  defend  ; 
Give  us  a  respite  from  our  toil, 
Calm  and  subdue  our  woes  ; 
Through  the  long  day  we  suffer, 

Lord, 
O  give  us  now  repose ! 


HEARTS. 


185 


THE   INNER    CHAMBER. 

IN  the  outer  Court  I  was  singing, 
Was  singing  the  whole  day 

long; 
From  the  inner  chamber  were 

ringing 
Echoes  repeating  my  song. 

And  I  sang  till  it  grew  immortal ; 

For  that  very  song  of  mine, 
When  re-echoed  behind  the  Por- 
tal, 

Was  filled  with  a  life  divine. 

Was  the  Chamber  a  silver  round 
Of  arches,  whose  magical  art 

Drew  in  coils  of  musical  sound, 
And  cast  them  back  on  my 
heart  1 

Was  there  hidden  within  a  lyre 
Which,  as  air  breathed   over 

its  strings, 
Filled  my  song  with  a  soul  of 

fire, 

And  sent  back  my  words  with 
wings  ? 

Was  some    seraph    imprisoned 

there, 

Whose  Voice  made  my  song 
complete, 

And   whose   lingering,   soft  de- 
spair 

Made  the  echo  so  faint  and  sweet  ? 

Long  I  trembled  and  paused,  — 

then  parted 
The  curtains  with  heavy  fringe ; 


And,   half    fearing,   yet    eager- 
hearted, 

Turned  the  door  on  its  golden 
hinge. 

Now  I  sing  in  the  court  once 

more, 

I  sing  and  I  weep  all  day, 
As  I   kneel   by   the    close-shut 

door, 
For  I  know  what  the  echoes  say. 

Yet  I  sing  not  the  song  of  old, 
Ere  I  knew  whence  the  echo 

came, 

Ere  I  opened  the  door  of  gold  ;   » 
But  the  music  sounds  just  the 
same. 

Then  take  warning,    and   turn 

away ; 
Do   not  ask  of  that  hidden 

thing, 

Do  not  guess  what  the  echoes  say, 
Or  the  meaning  of  what  I  sing. 


HEARTS. 


A  TRINKET  made  like  a  Heart, 
dear, 

Of  red  gold,  bright  and  fine, 
Was  given  to  me  for  a  keepsake, 

Given  to  me  for  mine. 


186 


HEARTS. 


And  another  heart,   warm  and 
tender, 

As  true  as  a  heart  could  be  ; 
And  every  throb  that  stirred  it 

Was  always  and  all  for  me. 

Sailing  over  the  waters, 

Watching  the  far  blue  land, 

I  dropped  my  golden  heart,  dear, 
Dropped  it  out  of  my  hand  ! 

It  lies  in  the  cold,  blue  waters, 
Fathoms  and  fathoms  deep, 

The  golden  heart  which  I  prom- 
ised, 
Promised  to  prize  and  keep. 

Gazing  at  Life's  bright  visions, 
So  false,  and  fair,  and  new, 

I  forgot  the  other  heart,  dear, 
Forgot  it  and  lost  it  too  ! 

I  might  seek  that  heart  forever, 
I   might    seek    and    seek  in 
vain ;  — 

And  for  one  short,  careless  hour, 
I  pay  with  a  life  of  pain. 


II. 

THE  Heart  ?  —  Yes,  I  wore  it 
As  sign  and  as  token 

Of  a  love  that  once  gave  it, 
A  vow  that  was  spoken ; 


But  a  love,  and  a  vow,  and  a 

heart 
Can  be  broken. 

The  Love  ?  —  Life  and  Death 
Are  crushed  into  a  day, 

So  what  wonder  that  Love 
Should  as  soon  pass  away,  — 

What  wonder  I  saw  it 
Fade,  fail,  and  decay  ? 

The  Vow  ?  —  why  what  was  it  ? 

It  snapped  like  a  thread  ; 
Who  cares  for  the  corpse 

When  the  spirit  is  fled  ? 
Then  I  said,  "  Let  the  Dead  rise 

And  bury  its  dead, 

"  While  the  true,  living  future 
Grows  pure,  wise,  and  strong." 

So  I  cast  the  gold  heart 
I  had  worn  for  so  long 

In  the  Lake,  and  bound  on  it 
A  Stone  —  and  a  Wrong! 


III. 

LOOK,  this  little  golden  Heart 
Was  a  true-love  shrine 

For  a  tress  of  hair  ;  I  held  them, 
Heart  and  tress,  as  mine, 

Like   the  Love  which  gave  the 
token  :  — 

See,  to-day  the  Heart  is  broken ! 


A    WOMAN'S  LAST   WORD. 


187 


Broken  is  the  golden  heart, 
Lost  the  tress  of  hair  ; 

All,  the  shrine  is  empty,  vacant, 
Desolate  and  bare ! 

So  the  token  should  depart, 

When  Love  dies  within  the  heart. 

Fast  and  deep  the  river  floweth, 

Floweth  to  the  west ; 
I  will  cast  the  golden  trinket 

In  its  cold  dark  hreast :  — 
Flow,  O  river,  deep  and  fast, 
Over  all  the  buried  past ! 


TWO  LOVES. 

DEEP  within  my  heart  of  hearts, 

dear, 

Bound  with  all  its  strings, 
Two  Loves  are  together  reigning, 
Both  are  crowned  like  Kings  ; 
While  my  life,  still  uncomplain- 
ing, 
Rests  beneath  their  wings. 

So  they  both  will  rule  my  heart, 
dear, 

Till  it  cease  to  beat ; 
No  sway  can  be  deeper,  stronger, 

Truer,  more  complete  ; 
Growing,  as  it  lasts  the  longer, 

Sweeter,  and  more  sweet. 

One  all  life  and  time  transfigures; 
Piercing  through  and  through 


Meaner  things  with  magic  splen- 
dor, 

Old,  yet  ever  new  : 
This  —  so   strong    and    yet   so 

tender  — 
Is  ...  my  Love  for  you. 


my 


Should     it    fail,  —  forgive 
doubting 

In  this  world  of  pain,  — 
Yet  my  other  Love  would  ever 

Steadfastly  remain ; 
And  I  know  that  I  could  never 

Turn  to  that  in  vain. 

Though   its  radiance    may    be 

fainter, 

Yet  its  task  is  wide  ; 
For  it  lives  to  comfort  sorrows, 
Strengthen,  calm,  and  guide, 
And  from  Trust  and  Honor  bor- 
rows 
All  its  peace  and  pride. 

Will  you  blame  my  dreaming, 

even 

If  the  first  were  flown  ? 
Ah,  I  would  not  live  without  it, 

It  is  all  your  own  : 
And  the  other  —  can  you  doubt 

it?  — 
Yours,  and  yours  alone. 


A  WOMAN'S  LAST  WORD. 

WELL  —  the  links  are  broken, 
All  is  past ; 


188 


PAST  AND  PRESENT. 


This  farewell,  when  spoken, 

Is  the  last. 
I  have  tried  and  striven 

All  in  vain ; 
Such  bonds  must  be  riven, 

Spite  of  pain, 
And  never,  never,  never 

Knit  again. 


So  I  tell  you  plainly, 

It  must  be : 
I  shall  try,  not  vainly, 

To  be  free  ; 
Truer,  happier  chances 

Wait  me  yet, 
While  you,  through  fresh  fancies, 

Can  forget ;  — 
And  life  has  nobler  uses 

Than  Regret. 


All  past  words  retracing, 

One  by  one, 
Does  not  help  effacing 

What  is  done. 
Let  it  be.    O,  stronger 

Links  can  break ! 
Had  we  dreamed  still  longer 

We  could  wake,  — 
Yet  let  us  part  in  kindness 

For  Love's  sake. 


Bitterness  and  sorrow 

Will  at  last, 
In  some  bright  to-morrow, 

Heal  their  past ; 
But  future  hearts  will  never 

Be  as  true 


As  mine  was  —  is  ever, 
Dear,  for  you  .... 

•  •  Then   must   we  part,  when 

loving 
As  we  do  ? 


PAST  AND   PRESENT. 

"LINGER,"  I  cried,  "  O  radiant 

Time !  thy  power 
Has  nothing  more  to  give ;  life 

is  complete : 
Let  but  the  perfect  Present,  hour 

by  hour, 
Itself  remember  and  itself  repeat. 


"  And   Love,  —  the   future   can 

but  mar  its  splendor, 
Change  can  but  dim  the  glory  of 

its  youth; 
Time  has  no  star  more  faithful 

or  more  tender 
To  crown  its  constancy  or  light 

its  truth." 


But  Time  passed  on  in  spite  of 

prayer  or  plead  my., 
Through  storm  and  peril;    but 

that  life  might  gain 
A  Peace  through  strife  all  other 

peace  exceeding, 
Fresh  joy  from  sorrow,  and  new 

hope  from  pain. 


FOR   THE  FUTURE. 


189 


And  since  Love  lived  when  all 

save  Love  was  dying, 
And,  passed  through  fire,  grew 

stronger  than  before  :  — 
Dear,  you  know  why,  in  double 

faith  relying, 
I  prize  the  Past  much,  but  the 

Present  more. 


FOR   THE   FUTURE. 

I  WONDER  did  you  ever  count 
The  value  of  one  human  fate  ; 
Or  sum  the  infinite  amount 
Of  one  heart's  treasures,  and 

the  weight 
Of  Life's  one  venture,  and  the 

whole   concentrate  purpose 

of  a  soul. 

And  if  you  ever  paused  to 
think 

That  all  this  in  your  hands  I 
laid 

Without  a  fear:  —  did  you 
not  shrink 

From   such   a   burden  ?    half 

afraid, 

Half  wishing  that  you  could  di- 
vide the  risk,  or  cast  it  all 
aside. 

"While  Love  has  daily  perils, 
such 

As  none  foresee  and  none  con- 
trol; 


And  hearts  are  strung  so  that 

one  touch, 
Careless  or  rough,  may  jar  the 

whole, 
You   well  might  feel   afraid  to 

reign  with   absolute  power 

of  joy  and  pain. 

You     well     might   fear  —  if 

Love's  sole  claim 
Were  to  be  happy:  but  true  Love 
Takes  joy  as  solace,  not  asaim, 
And  looks  beyond,  and  looks 

above ; 

And  sometimes  through  the  bit- 
terest strife  h'rst  learns  to 
live  her  highest  life. 

Earth  forges  joy  into  a  chain 
Till  fettered  Love  forgets  its 

strength, 
Its   purpose,  and  its  end ;  — 

but  Pain 

Restores  its  heritage  at  length, 
And  bids  Love  rise  again  and  be 

eternal,  mighty,  pure,  and 

free. 

If  then  your  future  life  should 

need 
A  strength  my  Love  can  only 

gain 
Through  suffering,  or  my  heart 

be  freed 
Only    by  sorrow    from   some 

stain, 
Then  you  shall  give,  and  I  will 

take,  this  Crown  of  fire  for 

Love's  dear  sake. 
September  8,  1860. 


A    CHAPLET    OF    VERSES. 


HOMELESS  WOMEN  AND  CHILDREN. 


INTKODUCTIOtf. 


THERE  is  scarcely  any  char- 
itable institution  which  should 
excite  such  universal,  such  un- 
hesitating sympathy,  as  a  Night 
Kefuge  for  the  Homeless  Poor. 

A  shelter  through  the  bleak 
winter  nights,  leave  to  rest  in 
some  poor  shed  instead  of  wan- 
dering through  the  pitiless  streets, 
is  a  boon  we  could  hardly  deny 
to  a  starving  dog.  And  yet  we 
have  all  known  that  in  this  coun- 
try, in  this  town,  many  of  our 
miserable  fellow-creatures  were 
pacing  the  streets  through  the 
long  weary  nights,  without  a 
roof  to  shelter  them,  without 
food  to  eat,  with  their  poor  rags 
soaked  in  rain,  and  only  the  bit- 
ter winds  of  Heaven  for  compan- 
ions ;  women  and  children  utter- 
ly forlorn  and  helpless,  either 
wandering  about  all  night,  or 
crouching  under  a  miserable 
archway,  or,  worst  of  all,  seek- 
ing in  death  or  sin  the  refuge 
denied  them  elsewhere.  It  is  a 
marvel  that  we  could  sleep  in 
peace  in  our  warm,  comfortable 


homes  with  this  horror  at  our 
very  door. 

But  at  last  some  efforts  were 
made  to  efface  this  stain  upon 
our  country,  public  sympathy 
was  appealed  to,  and  a  few 
"  Refuges  "  were  opened,  to  shel- 
ter our  homeless  poor  through 
the  winter  nights. 

In  the  autumn  of  1860  there 
was  no  Catholic  Refuge  in  the 
kingdom  ;  and  excellent  as  were 
the  Protestant  Refuges,  their  re- 
sources were  quite  inadequate  to 
meet  the  claims  upon  them. 

In  this  country,  as  we  all 
know,  the  very  poorest  and  most 
destitute  are  in  many  cases 
Catholics ;  and  doubtless  our 
Priests,  to  whom  no  form  of  sin 
or  sorrow  is  strange,  must  see  in 
a  special  manner,  and  in  innu- 
merable results,  the  sufferings, 
dangers,  and  temptations  of  the 
homeless.  The  Rev.  Dr.  Gil- 
bert therefore  resolved  to  open  a 
Catholic  Night  Refuge  in  his 
parish,  and  to  his  zealous  charity 
and  unwearied  efforts  are  due 


196 


INTRODUCTION. 


the  foundation  and  success  of  the 
PROVIDENCE  Row  NIGHT  REF- 
UGE FOR  HOMELESS  WOMEN 
AND  CHILDREN  ;  the  first  Cath- 
olic Refuge  in  England  or  Ire- 
land, and  still  the  only  one  in 
England. 

The  Sisters  of  Mercy  had  long 
been  aiding  their  pastors  in  the 
schools  of  the  parish,  and  when 
this  new  opening  for  their  char- 
ity was  suggested  to  them,  they 
unhesitatingly  accepted  a  task, 
worthy  indeed  of  the  holy  name 
they  bear.  They  were  seeking 
for  some  house  more  suitable  for 
a  Convent  than  the  one  they 
had  hitherto  occupied  in  Broad 
Street ;  and  when  Dr.  Gilbert 
saw  the  large  stable  at  the  back 
of  14  Finsbury  Square,  he  felt 
that  here  was  a  suitable  place 
for  his  long-cherished  plan  of  a 
Night  Refuge.  It  was  separated 
from  the  house  by  a  yard,  and 
opened  on  a  narrow  street  at  the 
back,  already  called,  with  a  hap- 
py appropriateness,  Providence 
Row.  To  Finsbury  Square 
therefore  the  community  re- 
moved, and  it  was  not  long  be- 
fore the  stable  was  fitted  up  with 
wooden  beds  and  benches,  the 
few  preparations  were  completed, 
and  on  the  7th  of  October,  1860, 
the  Refuge  was  opened.  At 
first  there  were  but  fourteen  beds, 
but  contributions  flowed  in  from 
Protestants  as  well  as  Catholics, 
and  in  February,  1861,  thirty- 


one  more  beds  were  added,  mak- 
ing in  all  forty-five.  But  as 
many  of  the  poor  women  have 
children  with  them,  rarely  less 
than  sixty  persons  are  each  night 
admitted.  Up  to  the  present 
time,  fourteen  thousand  seven 
hundred  and  eighty-five  nights' 
lodgings  have  been  given,  with 
the  same  number  of  suppers  and 
breakfasts. 

From  six  to  eight  are  the 
hours  of  admission ;  but  this  is 
indeed  a  needless  rule,  for  a 
crowd  of  ragged  women,  with 
pale,  weary  children  clinging  to 
them,  are  waiting  patiently  long 
before  the  doors  are  opened,  and 
the  place  is  filled  at  once. 

Means  for  washing  are  given 
them,  they  rest  themselves  in 
warmth,  light,  and  peace,  and  at 
eight  o'clock  each  person  receives 
half  a  pound  of  bread  and  a 
large  basin  of  excellent  gruel. 
Night  prayers  arc  said  by  one 
of  the  Sisters,  and  then  the  poor 
wanderers  lie  down  in  their  rude 
but  clean  and  comfortable  beds. 
They  have  the  same  meal  in  the 
morning. 

Those  who  come  on  Saturday 
evening  remain  till  Monday,  re- 
ceiving on  Sunday,  besides  the 
usual  breakfast  and  supper,  an 
extra  half-pound  of  bread,  and  a 
good  supply  of  meat  soup. 
There  is  no  distinction  of  creed  ; 
Protestants  and  Catholics  are 
alike  admitted.  There  are  but 


INTRODUCTION. 


197 


two  conditions  of  admittance,  — 
that  the  applicants  be  homeless 
and  of  good  character.  This  is 
the  only  Refuse  which  makes 
character  a  condition  ;  and  it  is 
found  that,  in  spite  of  all  pre- 
cautions, much  harm  arises  in 
the  other  Refuges  to  the  young 
and  innocent,  from  the  bad  lan- 
guage and  evil  example  of  the 
degraded  class  with  whom  they 
are  brought  in  contact. 

Each  evening  (and  on  Sun- 
days more  fully)  simple  instruc- 
tions on  the  Catechism  are  given 
by  one  of  the  Sisters ;  but  this 
the  Protestants  do  not  attend ; 
they  frequently  ask  leave  to  be 
present,  but  it  is  not  permitted, 
(without  the  special  permission 
of  one  of  the  clergy,)  as  the  in- 
structions on  the  practice  of  our 
faith  would  be  to  them  compara- 
tively useless  and  unmeaning. 

The  temporary  shelter  and 
food  which  is  given  in  Provi- 
dence Row  is  not  the  only,  per- 
haps often  not  the  greatest,  bene- 
fit bestowed  upon  the  poor  for- 
lorn inmates.  They  find  advice, 
sympathy,  and  help  from  the 
kind  Sisters ;  and  the  very  tell- 
ing their  troubles  to  one  who  is 
there  to  serve  and  tend  them, 
not  for  any  earthly  reward,  but 
from  Christian  love  and  pity, 
must  be  a  rest  to  their  weary 
hearts,  a  comfort  in  their  sore 
want  and  distress.  It  is  touch- 
ing to  see  their  eager  desire  to 


be  allowed  to  help  the  Sister  in 
the  cleaning,  cooking,  etc.,  and 
the  half-ashamed  thankfulness 
with  which  they  watch  her  busied 
in  their  service. 

One  of  the  Nuns  sleeps  every 
night  in  the  Refuge,  and  no  un- 
ruly sound,  no  whisper  of  mur- 
mur or  disrespect,  ever  rises 
against  her  gentle  sway.  Nay, 
even  more,  when  she  has  the 
sad  task  of  selecting  among  the 
waiting  crowd  the  number  who 
may  enter,  choosing  generally 
those  with  children  and  those 
who  have  not  applied  before,  the 
rest  submit  without  a  murmur. 
Though  the  little  ones  are  hard- 
ly counted,  but  creep  in  by  their 
mothers'  sides,  there  are  still 
many  —  sometimes  thirty  or 
forty  nightly  —  turned  away  for 
want  of  space.  They  have  had 
a  glimpse  of  warmth  and  light, 
and  then  it  is  the  cruel  office  of 
the  kind  Nun  to  bar  the  door 
against  them;  but  no  angry 
word,  no  remonstrance,  meets 
her  sorrowful  refusal ;  they  turn 
once  more  to  their  weary  wan- 
derings in  the  dark,  bleak  streets. 
And  so  will  many  have  to  do, 
night  after  night,  until  the  Ref- 
uge is  enlarged.  The  present 
space  will  hold  no  more  beds, 
but  to  build  an  additional  dor- 
mitory is  the  earnest  desire  and 
intention  of  Dr.  Gilbert. 

No  salaries  are  received  by  any 
who   have   charge  of  the  Refuge. 


198 


INTRODUCTION. 


Among  the  many  causes  for 
gratitude  we  have  to  our  good 
Religious,  surely  it  is  not  one 
of  the  least,  that  what  we  can 
spare  in  the  cause  of  charity 
goes  solely  and  directly  to  its 
object;  the  more  difficult  and 
more  perfect  share  of  the  good 
work  being  taken  by  them  out 
of  love  to  God  and  his  poor. 

The  Refuge  is  open  from  the 
month  of  October  to  April. 

It  is  placed  under  the  special 
patronage  of  Our  Blessed  Lady, 
and  Blessed  Benedict  Labre. 

May  the  Mother  who  wan- 
dered homeless  through  inhos- 
pitable Bethlehem,  and  the  Saint 
who  was  a  beggar  and  an  out- 
cast upon  the  face  of  the  earth, 
watch  over  this  liefuge  for  the 
poor  and  desolate,  and  obtain 
from  the  charity  of  the  faithful 
the  aid  which  it  so  sorely  needs. 


I  may  add,  that  donations  for 
the  Refuge  will  be  thankfully 
received  by  the  Rev.  Dr.  Gilbert, 
22  Finsbury  Circus,  or  by  the 
Rev.  Mother,  at  the  Convent,  14 
Finsbury  Square,  E.  C. 

We  all  meditate  long  and 
often  on  the  many  kinds  of  suf- 
ferings borne  for  us  by  our  Bless- 
ed Redeemer;  but  perhaps,  if 
we  consider  a  moment,  we  shall 
most  of  us  confess,  that  the  one 
we  think  of  least  often,  the  one 
we  compassionate  least  of  all,  is 
the  only  one  of  which  he  deigned 
to  tell  us  himself,  and  for  which 
he  himself  appealed  to  our  pity 
in  the  Divine  complaint,  "The 
foxes  have  holes,  and  the  birds 
of  the  air  have  nests,  but  the 
Son  of  Man  has  not  where  to  lay 
his  head." 

A.  A.  P. 
May,  1862. 


A  CHAPLET  OF  VERSES. 


THE  AEMY   OF  THE  LORD. 


To  fight  the  battle  of  the  Cross,  Christ's  chosen  ones'are  sent, — 
Good  soldiers  and  great  victors,  —  a  noble  armament. 
They  use  no  earthly  weapon,  they  know  not  spear  or  sword, 
Yet  right  and  true  and  valiant  is  the  army  of  the  Lord. 

ii. 

Fear  them,  ye  mighty  ones  of  earth  ;  fear  them,  ye  demon  foes  ; 
Slay  them  and  think  to  conquer,  but  the  ranks  will  always  close : 
In  vain  do  Earth  and  Hell  unite  their  power  and  skill  to  try, 
They  fight  better  for  their  wounds,  and  they  conquer  when  they  die. 


The  soul  of  every  sinner  is  the  victory  they  would  gain  ; 
They  would  bind  each  rebel  heart  in  their  Master's  golden  chain  : 
Faith  is  the  shield  they  carry,  and  the  two-edged  sword  they  bear 
Is  God's  strongest,  mightiest  weapon,  and  they  call  it  Love  and 
Prayer. 


"Where  the  savage  hordes  are  dwelling  by  the  Ganges'  sacred  tide, 
Through  the  trackless  Indian  forests,  St.  Francis  is  their  guide; 
Where  crime  and  sin  are  raging,  to  conquer  they  are  gone ;  — 
They  do  conquer  as  they  go,  for  St.  Philip  leads  them  on. 


200  THE  ARMY  OF  THE  LORD. 

v. 

They  are  come  where  all  are  kneeling  at  the  shrines  of  wealth  and 

pride, 

And  an  old  and  martyred  Bishop  is  their  comrade  and  their  guide : 
To  tell  the  toil-worn  negro  of  freedom  and  repose, 
O'er  the  vast  Atlantic's  bosom  they  are  called  by  sweet  St.  Rose. 


They  are  gone  where  Love  is  frozen,  and  Faith  grown  calm  and  cold, 
Where  the  world  is  all  triumphant,  and  the  sheep  have  left  the  fold, 
Where  His  children  scorn  His  blessings,  and  His  sacred  Shrines 

despise,  — 
And  the  beacon  of  the  warriors  is  the  light  in  Mary's  eyes. 


The  bugle  for  their  battle  is  the  matin  bell  for  prayer ; 
And  for  their  noble  standard  Christ's  holy  Cross  they  bear ; 
His  sacred  name  their  war-cry,  't  is  in  vain  what  ye  can  do, 
They  must  conquer,  for  your  Angels  are  leaguing  with  them  too. 


Would  you  know,  O  World,  these  warriors  ?     Go  where  the  poor, 

the  old, 

Ask  for  pardon  and  for  heaven,  and  you  offer  food  and  gold ; 
With  healing  and  with  comfort,  with  words  of  peace  and  prayer, 
Bearing  His  greatest  gift  to  man,  —  Christ's  chosen  priests  are  there. 


Where  sin  and  crime  are  dwelling,  hid  from  the  light  of  day, 
And  life  and  hope  are  fading  at  Death's  cold  touch  away, 
Where  dying  eyes  in  horror  see  the  long-forgotten  past, 
Christ's  servants  claim  the  sinner,  and  gain  his  soul  at  last. 


Where  the  rich  and  proud  and  mighty  God's  message  would  defy, 
In  warning  and  reproof  His  anointed  ones  stand  by  : 
Bright  are  the  crowns  of  glory  God  keepcth  for  His  own, 
Their  life  one  sigh  for  heaven,  and  their  aim  His  will  alone. 


THE  ARMY  OF  THE  LORD.  201 

XI. 

And  see  sweet  Mercy's  sister,  where  the  poor  and  wretched  dwell, 

In  gentle  accents  telling  of  Him  she  loves  so  well ; 

Training  young  hearts  to  serve  their  Lord,  and  place  their  hope  in 

Heaven, 
Bidding  her  erring  sisters  love  much  and  be  forgiven. 


And  where  in  cloistered  silence  dim  the  Brides  of  Jesus  dwell, 
Where  purest  incense  rises  up  from  every  lowly  cell, 
They  plead  not  vainly,  —  they  have  chosen  and  gained  the  better  part, 
And  given  their  gentle  life  away  to  Him  who  has  their  heart. 


And  some  there  are  among  us  —  the  path  which  they  have  trod 
Of  sin  and  pain  and  anguish  has  led  at  last  to  God : 
They  plead,  and  Christ  will  hear  them,  that  the  poor  slaves  who  pine 
In  the  bleak  dungeon  they  have  left,  may  see  His  truth  divine. 


O,  who  can  tell  how  many  hearts  are  altars  to  His  praise, 

From  which  the  silent  prayer  ascends  through  patient  nights  and 

days : 

The  sacrifice  is  offered  still  in  secret  and  alone, 
O  World,  ye  do  not  know  them,  but  He  can  help  His  own. 


They  are  with  us,  His  true  soldiers,  they  come  in  power  and  might ; 
Glorious  the  crown  which  they  shall  gain  after  the  heavenly  fight ; 
And  you,  perchance,  who  scoff,  may  yet  their  rest  and  glory  share, 
As  the  rich  spoil  of  their  battle  and  the  captives  of  their  prayer. 

XVI. 

0,  who  shall  tell  the  wonder  of  that  great  day  of  rest, 

When  even  in  this  place  of  strife  His  soldiers  are  so  blest : 

O  World,  0  Earth,  why  strive  ye  1  join  the  low  chant  they  sing,  — 

"  O  Grave,  where  is  thy  victory  !     O  Death,  where  is  thy  sting  !  " 


202 


THE  SACRED  HEART. 


THE    STAR  OF  THE  SEA. 

How  many  a  mighty  ship 

The  stormy  waves  o'erwhelm  ; 
Yet  our  frail  bark  floats  on, 

Our  Angel  holds  the  helm  : 
Dark  storms  are  gathering  round, 

And  dangerous  winds  arise, 
Yet  see !  one  trembling  star 

Is  shining  in  the  skies  ;  — 
And  we  are  safe  who  trust  in 

thee, 
Star  of  the  Sea ! 


A  long  and  weary  voyage 

Have  we  to  reach  our  home, 
And  dark  and  sunken  rocks 

Are  hid  in  silver  foam  ; 
Each  moment  we  may  sink, 

But  steadily  we  sail, 
Our  winged  Pilot  smiles, 

And  says  we  shall  not  fail :  — 
And  so  we  kneel  and  call  on 

thee, 
Star  of  the  Sea ! 


Yes,  for  those  shining  rays 

Shall  beam  upon  the  main, 
Shall  guide  us  safely  on, 

Through  fear  and  doubt  and 

pain: 

And  see  —  the  stormy  wind 
Our  little  sail  has  caught, 
The  tempest  others  fear 

Shall  drive  us  into  port :  — 
Through  Life's  dark  voyage  we 

trust  in  thee, 
Star  of  the  Sea ! 


The  shore  now  looms  in  sight, 

The  far-off  golden  strand, 
Yet  many  a  freight  is  wrecked 

And  lost  in  sight  of  land ; 
Then  guide  us  safely  home, 
Through    that   last  hour  of 

strife, 
And  welcome  us  to  land, 

From   the    long   voyage    of 

life:  — 

In  death  and  life  we  call  on  thee, 
Star  of  the  Sea  ! 


THE   SACRED   HEART. 

WHAT   wouldst   thou   have,    O 
soul, 

Thou  weary  soul  ? 
Lo  !  I  have  sought  for  rest 
On  the  Earth's  heaving  breast, 

From  pole  to  pole. 
Sleep  —  I  have  been  with  her, 

But  she  gave  dreams  ; 
Death  —  nay,  the  rest  he  gives 

Rest  only  seems. 
Fair  nature  knows  it  not  — 

The  grass  is  growing ; 
The  blue  air  knows  it  not  — 

The  winds  are  blowing : 
Not  in  the  changing  sky, 

The  stormy  sea, 
Yet  somewhere  in  God's  wide 
world 

Rest  there  must  be. 
Within  thy  Saviour's  Heart 

Place  all  thy  care, 


THE  SACRED  HEART. 


203 


And  learn,  O  weary  soul, 
Thy  Rest  is  there. 


What  wouldst   thou,   trembling 
soul? 

Strength  for  the  strife,  — 
Strength  for  this  fiery  war 

That  we  call  Life. 
Fears  gather  thickly  round  ; 

Shadowy  foes, 
Like  unto  armed  men, 

Around  me  close. 
What  am  I,  frail  and  poor, 

When  griefs  arise  ? 
No  help  from  the  weak  earth, 

Or  the  cold  skies. 
Lo  !  I  can  find  no  guards, 

No  weapons  borrow ; 
Shrinking,  alone  I  stand, 

With  mighty  sorrow. 
Courage,  thou  trembling  soul, 

Grief  thou  must  bear, 
Yet  thou  canst  find  a  strength 

Will  match  despair ; 
Within  thy  Saviour's  Heart  — 

Seek  for  it  there. 


What  wouldst   thou  have,   sad 
soul, 

Oppressed  with  grief?  — 
Comfort :  I  seek  in  vain, 

Nor  find  relief. 
Nature,  all  pitiless, 

Smiles  on  my  pain  ; 
I  ask  my  fellow-men, 

They  give  disdain. 
I  asked  the  babbling  streams, 

But  they  (lowed  on  ; 


I  asked  the  wise  and  good, 

But  they  gave  none. 
Though  I  have  asked  the  stars, 

Coldly  they  shine. 
They  are  too  bright  to  know 

Grief  such  as  mine. 
I  asked  for  comfort  still, 

And  I  found  tears, 
And  I  have  sought  in  vain 

Long,  weary  years. 
Listen,  thou  mournful  soul, 

Thy  pain  shall  cease ; 
Deep  in  His  sacred  Heart 

Dwells  joy  and  peace. 


Yes,  in  that  Heart  divine 

The  Angels  bright 
Find,  through  eternal  years, 

Still  new  delight. 
From  thence  his  constancy 

The  martyr  drew, 
And  there  the  virgin  band 

Their  refuge  knew. 
There,  racked  by  pain  without, 

And  dread  within, 
How  many  souls  have  found 

Heaven's  bliss  begin. 
Then  leave  thy  vain  attempts 

To  seek  for  peace  ; 
The  world  can  never  give 

One  soul  release  : 
But  in  thy  Saviour's  Heart 

Securely  dwell, 
No  pain  can  harm  thee,  hid 

In  that  sweet  cell. 
Then  fly,  O  coward  soul, 

Delay  no  more : 
What  words  can  speak  the  joy 

For  thee  in  store  ? 


204 


THE  NAMES   OF  OUR  LADY. 


"What  smiles  of  earth  can  tell 
Of  peace  like  thine  1 

Silence  and  tears  are  best 
For  things  divine. 


THE 


NAMES      OF 
LADY. 


OUR 


THROUGH  the  wide  world  thy 

children  raise 

Their  prayers,  and  still  we  see 
Calm  are  the  nights  and  bright 

the  days 
Of  those  who  trust  in  thee. 

Around   thy  starry   crown   are 
wreathed 

So  many  names  divine  : 
Which  is  the  dearest  to  my  heart, 

And  the  most  worthy  thine  ? 

Star  of  the  Sea :  we  kneel  and 

pray 
When    tempests    raise    their 

voice  ; 
Star   of    the    Sea!    the   haven 

reached, 
We  call  thee  and  rejoice. 

Help  of  the  Christian :  in  our  need 
Thy  mighty  aid  we  claim  ; 

If  we  are  faint  and  weary,  then 
We  trust  in  that  dear  name. 

Our  Ladg  of  the  Rosary  : 
What  name  can  be  so  sweet 


As  what  we  call  thee  when  we 

place 
Our  chaplets  at  thy  feet. 

Briyht   Queen  of  Heaven :  when 

we  are  sad, 

Best  solace  of  our  pains  ;  — 
It  tells  us,  though  on  earth  we 

toil. 
Our  Mother  lives  and  reigns. 

Our  Lady  of  Mount  Carmel :  thus 
Sometimes  thy  name  is  known ; 

It  tells  us  of  the  badge  we  wear, 
To  live  or  die  thine  own. 

Our  Lady  dear  of  Victories : 
We  see  our  faith  oppressed, 

And,  praying  for  our  erring  land, 
We  love  that  name  the  best. 

Refnr/e  of  Sinners :  many  a  soul, 
By  guilt  cast  down,  and  sin, 

Has  learned  through  this   dear 

name  of  thine 
Pardon  and  peace  to  win. 

Health  of  the  Sick :  when  anxious 

hearts 

Watch  by  the  sufferer's  bed, 
On  this  sweet  name  of  thine  they 

lean, 
Consoled  and  comforted. 

Mother  of  Sorrows :  many  a  heart 
Half  broken  by  despair 

Has  laid  its  burden  by  the  cross, 
And  found  a  mother  there. 


A   CHAP  LET   OF  FLOWERS. 


205 


Queen  of  all  Saints :  the  Church 

appeals 

For  her  loved  dead  to  thee  ; 
She  knows  they  wait  in  patient 

pain 
A  bright  eternity. 

Fair  Queen  of  Virgins  :  thy  pure 

band, 

The  lilies  round  thy  throne, 
Love  the  dear  title  which  they 

bear 
Most  that  it  is  thine  own. 

True   Qiteen   of  Martyrs :  if  we 

shrink 

From  want,  or  pain,  or  woe, 
We   think   of  the  sharp  sword 

that  pierced 
Thy  heart,  and  call  thee  so. 

Alan/ :  the  dearest  name  of  all, 
The  holiest  and  the  best ; 

The  first  low  word  that  Jesus 

lisped 
Laid  on  His  mother's  breast. 

Mary,    the   name    that   Gabriel 

spoke, 

The  name  that  conquers  hell : 
Mary,   the   name  that    through 

high  heaven 
The  angels  love  so  well. 

Mary,  —  our  comfort  and   our 
hope,  — 

O  may  that  word  be  given 
To  be  the  last  we  sigh  on  earth,  — 

The  first  we  breathe  in  heaven. 


A   CHAPLET    OF    FLOW- 
ERS. 

DEAR,  set  the  casement  open, 
The  evening  breezes  blow 

Sweet  perfumes  from  the  flowers 
I  cannot  see  below. 

I  can  but  catch  the  waving 
Of  chestnut  boughs  that  pass, 

Their  shadow  must  have  covered 
The  sun-dial  on  the  grass. 

So  go  and  bring  the  flowers 
I  love  best  to  my  room, 

My  failing  strength  no  longer 
Can  bear  me  where  they  bloom. 

You  know  I  used  to  love  them, 
But  ah  !  they  come  too  late,  — 

For  see,  my  hands  are  trembling 
Beneath  their  dewy  weight. 

So  I  will  watch  you  weaving 
A  chaplet  for  me,  dear, 

Of  all  my  favorite  flowers, 
As  I  could  do  last  year. 

First,  take  those  crimson  roses,  — 
How  red  their  petals  glow  ! 

Red  as  the  blood  of  Jesus, 
Which  heals  our  sin  and  woe. 

See  in  each  heart  of  crimson 
A  deeper  crimson  shine  : 

So  in  the  foldings  of  our  hearts 
Should  glow  a  love  divine. 


206 


A   CHAP  LET  OF  FLOWERS. 


Next  place  those  tender  violets, 
Look  how  they  still  regret 

The  cell  where  they  were  hid- 
den, — 
The  tears  are  on  them  yet. 

How   many   souls  —  His   loved 
ones  — 

Dwell  lonely  and  apart, 
Hiding  from  all  but  One  above 

The  fragrance  of  their  heart. 

Then  take  that  virgin  lily, 
How  holily.  she  stands  ! 

You  know  the  gentle  angels 
Bear  lilies  in  their  hands. 

Yet  crowned  with  purer  radiance 
A  deeper  love  they  claim, 

Because  their  queen-like  white- 
ness 
Is  linked  with  Mary's  name. 

And  now  this  spray  of  ivy : 
You  know  its  gradual  clasp 

Uproots  strong  trees,  and  towers 
Fall  crumbling  in  its  grasp. 

So  God's  dear  grace  around  us 
With  secret  patience  clings, 

And    slow,    sure    power,    that 

loosens 
Strongholds  on  human  things. 

Then  heliotrope,  that  turneth 
Towards  her  lord  the  sun,  — 

Would   that    our   thoughts    as 

fondly 
Sought  our  beloved  One. 


Nay,  if  that  branch  be  fading, 
Cast  not  one  blossom  by, 

Its  little  task  is  ended 
And  it  does  well  to  die. 

And  let  some  field  flowers  even 
Be  wreathed  among  the  rest, 

I  think  the  infant  Jesus 

Would  love  such  ones  the  best. 

These   flowers  are  all  too  bril- 
liant, 
So    place    calm    heart's-ease 

there, 

God's  last  and  sacred  treasure 
For  all  who  wait  and  bear. 

Then  lemon-leaves,  whose  sweet- 
ness 

Grows  sweeter  than  before 
When  bruised,  and  crushed,  and 

broken, 

—  Hearts    need    that    lesson 
more. 

Yet  stay,  —  one  crowning  glory, 
All  His,  and  yet  all  ours  ; 

The  dearest,  tenderest  thought  o 

all, 
Is  still  the  Passion-flower's. 

So  take  it  now,  —  nay,  heed  not 
My  tears  that  on  it  fall ; 

I  thank  Him  for  the  flowers, 
As  I  can  do  for  all. 

And  place  it  on  the  altar, 

Where  oft,  in  days  long  flown, 

I  knelt  by  His  dear  Mother, 
And  knew  she  was  my  own. 


KTRIE  ELEISON. 


207 


The  bells  ring  out  her  praises, 
The     evening    shades    grow 
dim; 

Go  there  and  say  a  prayer  for  me, 
And  sing  Our  Lady's  hymn. 

Vhile  I  lie  here,  and  ask  her 
help 

In  that  last,  longed-for  day  — 
\Then  the  Beloved  of  my  heart 

Will  call  my  soul  away. 


KYRIE   ELEISON. 

r  joy,  in  pain,  in  sorrow, 
Father,  Thy  hand  we  see ; 
!ut  some  among  Thy  children 

Deny  this  faith  and  Thee. 
They  will  not  ask  Thy  mercy, 
But   we   kneel   for   them    in 

prayer ; 
ire  they  not  still  Thy  children  ? 

Pity,  O  God  !  and  spare. 
Thy  peace,  0  Lord,  has  never 

On   their    desolate    pathway 
,  •  * 

shone, 

)arkness  is  all  around  them  : 
Kyrie  Eleison ! 


And  life  is  all  they  hope  for, 
And  Death  they  call  the  end  ; 

Their  eyes,  O  Lord  !  are  blinded 
To  the  glories  of  the  sun, 

To  the  shining  of  the  sea-star  — 
Kyrie  Eleison ! 


By   the   love   Thy  saints  have 

shown  Thee, 
And   the  sorrows   they  have 

borne, 
Leave  not  these  erring  creatures 

To  wander  thus  forlorn. 
By    Thy   tender   name  of   Sa- 
viour,— 

The  name  they  have  denied ; 
By  Thy  bitter  death  and  passion, 
And  the  Cross  which  they  de- 
ride; 

By  the  anguish  Thou  hast  suf- 
fered, 

And  the  glory  Thou  hast  won ; 
By  Thy  love  and  by  Thy  pity  — 
Christe  Eleison ! 


Pray  for  them,  glorious  seraphs, 

And  ye,  bright  angel  band, 
Who  chant  His  praises  ever, 

And  in  His  presence  stand ; 
And  thou,  O  gentle  Mother, 

Queen  of  the  starry  sky ; 
Ye  Saints  whose  toils  are  over, 

Join  your  voices  to  our  cry,  — • 
In  Thy  terror  or  Thy  mercy, 

Call  them  ere  life  is  done, 
For  His  sake  who  died  to  save 
them, 

Kyrie  Eleison ! 


208 


AN  APPEAL. 


THE    ANNUNCIATION. 

How  pure,  and  frail,  and  white, 
The  snowdrops  shine ! 

Gather  a  garland  bright 
For  Mary's  shrine. 

For,  born  of  winter  snows, 

These  fragile  flowers 
Are  gifts  to  our  fair  Queen 

From  Spring's  first  hours. 

For  on  this  blessed  day 

She  knelt  at  prayer ; 
When,  lo  !  before  her  shone 

An  Angel  fair. 

"  Hail,  Mary ! "  thus  he  cried, 

With  reverent  fear : 
She,  with  sweet  wondering  eyes, 

Marvelled  to  hear. 


Be  still,  ye  clouds  of  Heaven ! 

Be  silent,  Earth ! 
And  hear  an  Angel  tell 

Of  Jesus'  birth, 

While  she,  whom  Gabriel  hails 

As  full  of  grace, 
Listens  with  humble  faith 

In  her  sweet  face. 


Be  still,  Pride,  War,  and  Pomp, 
Vain  Hopes,  vain  Fears, 

For  now  an  Angel  speaks, 
And  Mary  hears. 


"  Hail,  Mary  !  "  lo,  it  rings 

Through  ages  on ; 
"  Hail,  Mary  !  "  it  shall  sound, 

Till  Time  is  done. 

"  Hail,  Mary !  "  infant  lips 

Lisp  it  to-day ; 
"  Hail,  Mary  !  "  with  faint  smi 

The  dying  say. 

"  Hail,  Mary !  "  many  a  heart 

Broken  with  grief, 
In  that  angelic  prayer 

Has  found  relief. 

And  many  a  half-lost  soul, 
When  turnep  at  bay, 

With  those  triumphant  words 
Has  won  the  day. 


"  Hail,  Mary,  Queen  of  Hear- 
en ! " 

Let  us  repeat, 
And  place  our  snowdrop  wreath 

Here  at  her  feet. 


AN  APPEAL. 

"  THE  IRISH  CHURCH  MISSIOK 
FOR  CONVERTING  THE  CATH 
OLIOS." 

SPARE  her,  0  cruel  England ! 

Thy  Sister  lieth  low ; 
Chained  and  oppressed  she  lieth 

Spare  her  that  cruel  blow. 


AN  APPEAL. 


209 


We  ask  not  for  the  freedom 

Heaven  has  vouchsafed  to  thee, 
Nor  bid  thee  share  with  Ireland 

The  empire  of  the  sea ; 
Her  children  ask  no  shelter,  — 

Leave  them  the  stormy  sky ; 
They  ask  not  for  thy  harvests, 

For  they  know  how  to  die : 
Deny  them,  if  it  please  thee, 

A  grave  beneath  the  sod  :  — 
But  we  do  cry,  O  England, 

Leave  them  their  faith  in  God  ! 

Take,  if  thou  wilt,  the  earnings 

Of  the  poor  peasant's  toil, 
Take  all  the  scanty  produce 

That  grows  on  Irish  soil, 
To  pay  the  alien  preachers 

Whom  Ireland  will  not  hear, 
To  pay  the  scoffers  at  a  Creed 

Which  Irish  hearts  hold  dear: 
But  leave  them,  cruel  England, 

The  gift  their  God  has  given, 
Leave  them  their  ancient  worship, 

Leave    them   their    faith    in 
Heaven. 

You  come  and  offer  Learning,  — 

A  mighty  gift,  't  is  true  ; 
Perchance  the  greatest  blessing 

That  now  is  known  to  you. 
But  not  to  see  the  wonders 

Sages  of  old  beheld 
Can  they  peril  a  priceless  treas- 
ure, 

The  Faith  their  Fathers  held ; 
For  in  learning  and  in  science 

They  may  forget  to  pray,  — 
God  will  not  ask  for  knowledge 

On  the  great  judgment  day. 


When,  in  their  wretched  cabins, 

Racked  by  the  fever  pain, 
And  the  weak  cries  of  their  chil- 
dren 

Who  ask  for  food  in  vain  ; 
When  starving,  naked,  helpless, 

From  the  shed  that  keeps  them 

warm 

Man  has  driven   them  forth  to 
perish, 

In  a  less  cruel  storm  ;  — 
Then,  then,  we  plead  for  mercy, 

Then,  Sister,  hear  our  cry  ! 
For  all  we  ask,  O  England, 

Is  —  leave  them  there  to  die ! 
Cursed  is  the  food  and  raiment 

For  which  a  soul  is  sold ; 
Tempt  not  another  Judas 

To  barter  God  for  gold. 
You  offer  food  and  shelter 

If  they  their  faith  deny  :  — 
What  do  you  gain,  O  England, 

By  such  a  shallow  lie  ?  .... 
We  will  not  judge  the  tempted, — 

May     God    blot     out    their 

shame,  — 
He  sees  the  misery  round  them, 

He  knows  man's  feeble  frame ; 
His  pity  still  may  save  them, 

In  His  strength  they  must  trust 
Who  calls  us  all  His  children, 

Yet  knows  we  are  but  dust. 

Then  leave  them  the  kind  tend- 
ing 
Which   helped  their   childish 

years; 

Leave  them  the  gracious  comfort 
Which    dries    the   mourner's 
tears ; 


110 


THE  JUBILEE   OF  1850. 


Leave  them  to  that  great  mother 
In   whose   bosom   they   were 

born  ; 
Leave  them  the  holy  mysteries 

That  comfort  the  forlorn  : 
Ami,  amid  all  their  trials, 

Let  the  Great  Gift  abide, 
Which  you,  O  prosperous  Eng- 
land, 

Have  dared  to  cast  aside. 
Leave  them  the  pitying  Angels 

And  Mary's  gentle  aid, 
For  which  earth's  dearest  treas- 
ures 

Were  not  too  dearly  paid. 
Take    back    your    bribes,    then, 

England, 

Your  gold  is  black  and  dim, 
And  if  God  sends   plague  and 

famine, 
They  can  die  and  go  to  Him. 


THE  JUBILEE   OF   1850. 


[The  titles  of  the  "  Island  of  Saints  " 
and  the  "  Dower  of  our  Lady,"  though 
more  frequently  applied  to  Ireland, 
vere  often  given  to  England  in  former 
times.] 


BLESS  God,  ye  happy  Lands, 
For  your  more  favored  lot  : 

Our  England  dwells  apart, 
Yet  O  forget  her  not. 

While,  with  united  joy, 
This  day  you  all  adore, 


Remember  what  she  was, 

Though  her  voice  is  heard  no 

more. 

Pray  for  our  desolate  land, 
Left  in  her  pride  and  pow- 
er.— 

She  was  the  Isle  of  Saints, 
She  was  Our  Lady's  Dower. 

Look  on  her  ruined  Altars ; 

HE  dwelleth  there  no  more  : 
Think  what  her  empty  churches 

Have  been  in  times  of  yore ; 
She  knows  the  names  no  longer 

Of  her  own  sainted  dead, 
Denies  the  faith  they  held, 

And  the  cause  for  which  they 

bled. 
Then  pray  for  our  desolat 

land, 
Left  in  her  pride  and  pow 

er  :  — 

She  was  the  Isle  of  Saints, 
She  was  Our  Lady's  Dower ! 


CHRISTMAS  FLOWERS. 


211 


Beg  of  our  Lord  to  give  her 

The  gift  she  cast  aside, 
And  in  His  mercy  pardon 

Her  faithlessness  and  pride  : 
Pray  to  her  Saints,  who  worship 
Before  God's  mercy  Throne  ; 
Look  where  our  Queen  is  dwell- 
ing, 

Ask  her  to  claim  her  own, 
To  give  her  the  proud  titles 
Lost  in  an  evil  hour  :  — 
She  was  the  Isle  of  Saints, 
She  was  Our  Lady's  Dower. 


CHRISTMAS   FLOWERS. 

THE  Earth  is  so  bleak  and  de- 
serted, 
So  cold  the  winds  blow, 
That  no  bud  or  no  blossom  will 

venture 

To  peep  from  below  ; 
But,     longing    for    springtime, 

they  nestle 
Deep  under  the  snow. 

O,  in  May  how  we  honored  Our 

Lady, 

Her  owu  month  of  flowers  ! 
Hew  happy  we  were  with  our 

garlands 

Through  all  the  spring  hours  ! 
All  her  shrines,  in  the  church  or 

the  wayside, 
Were  made  into  bowers. 


And  in  August  —  her  glorious 

Assumption ; 

What  feast  was  so  bright ! 
What  clusters  of  virginal  lilies, 

So  pure  and  so  white ! 
Why,  the  incense  could  scarce 

overpower 
Their  perfume  that  night. 


And  through  her  dear  feasts  of 

October 

The  roses  bloomed  still ; 
Our    baskets   were   laden   with 

flowers, 

Her  vases  to  fill  : 
Oleanders,  geraniums,  and  myr- 
tles, 
We  chose  at  our  will. 


And  we  know  when  the  Purifi- 
cation, 

Her  first  feast,  comes  round, 
The  early  spring  flowers,  to  greet 

it, 

Just  opening  are  found ; 
And  pure,  white,   and  spotless, 

the  snowdrop 
Will  pierce  the  dark  ground. 


And  now,  in  this  dreary  Decem- 
ber, 

Our  glad  hearts  are  fain 
To  see  if  Earth  comes  not  to  help 

us  ; 

We  seek  all  in  vain : 
Not  the  tiniest  blossom  is  coming 
Till  Spring  breathes  again. 


212 


A  DESIRE. 


And  the  bright  feast  of  Christmas 

is  dawning, 
And  Mary  is  blest; 
For  now   she  will  give  us  her 

Jesus, 

Our  dearest,  our  best, 
And  see  where  she  stands,  the 

Maid-Mother, 
Her  Babe  on  her  breast ! 

And  not  one  poor  garland  to  give 

her, 

And  yet  now,  behold, 
How  the  Kings  bring  their  gifts, 

—  myrrh,  and  incense, 
And  bars  of  pure  gold  : 
And  the  Shepherds  have  brought 

for  the  Baby 
Some  lambs  from  their  folds. 

He  stretches  His  tiny  hands  to- 
wards us, 

He  brings  us  all  grace  ; 
And   look   at  His  Mother  who 

holds  Him,  — 
The  smile  on  her  face 
Says  they  welcome  the  humblest 

gifts 
In  the  manger  we  place. 

Where  love  takes,  let  love  give ; 

and  so  doubt  not : 
Love  counts  but  the  will, 
And  the  heart  has  its  flowers  of 

devotion 

No  Winter  can  chill ; 
They  who  cared  for  "  good-will " 

that  first  Christmas 
Will  care  for  it  still. 


In   the    Chaplet   on  Jesus  and 
Mary, 

From  our  hearts  let  us  call, 
At  each  Ave  Maria  we  whisper 

A  rosebud  shall  fall, 
And  at  each  Gloria  Patri  a  lily, 

The  crown  of  them  all ! 


A  DESIKE. 

O,  TO  have  dwelt  in  Bethlehem 
When  the  star  of  the   Lord 

shone  bright ! 
To  have  sheltered  the  holy  wan- 
derers 
On    that    blessed    Christm 

night ; 

To  have  kissed  the  tender  way- 
worn feet 

Of  the  Mother  undefiled, 
And,  with  reverent  wonder  and 

deep  delight, 

To  have    tended    the    Holy 
Child ! 

Hush !  such  a  glory  was  not  for 

thee; 
But  that  care  may   still  be 

thine ; 
For  are  there  not  little  ones  still 

to  aid 

For  the  sake  of  the  Child  di- 
vine? 
Are  there  no  wandering  Pilgrims 

now, 

To  thy  heart  and  thy  home  to 
take? 


A  DESIRE. 


213 


And  are  there  no  mothers  whose 

weary  hearts 
You  can  comfort  for  Mary's 


O  to  have  knelt  at  Jesus'  feet, 
And  to  have  learnt  His  heav- 
enly lore ! 

To  have  listened  the  gentle  les- 
sons He  taught 
On  mountain,  and  sea,  and 

shore ! 
While  the  rich  and  the  mighty 

knew  Him  not, 
To    have    meekly   done   His 

will :  — 
Hush !  for  the  worldly  reject  Him 

yet, 

You  can  serve  and  love  Him 

still. 
Time  cannot  silence  His  mighty 

words, 
And  though   ages   have  fled 

away, 

His  gentle  accents  of  love  divine 
Speak  to  your  soul  to-day. 


O  to  have  solaced  that  weeping 

one 
Whom    the    righteous    dared 

despise ! 
To  have  tenderly  bound  up  her 

scattered  hair, 
And  have   dried   her   tearful 

eyes ! 
Hush !  there  are  broken  hearts 

to  soothe, 
And  penitent  tears  to  dry, 


While  Magdalen  prays  for  you 

and  them, 

From  her  home  in  the  starry 
sky. 

O  to  have  followed  the  mournful 

way 

Of  those  faithful  few  forlorn  ! 
And  grace,  beyond  even  an  an- 
gel's hope, 
The  Cross  for  our  Lord  have 

borne! 
To  have  shared   in  His  tender 

mother's  grief, 

To  have  wept  at  Mary's  side, 
To  have  lived  as  a  child  in  her 

home,  and  then 
In  her  loving  care  have  died ! 

Hush  !  and  with  reverent  sorrow 

still, 

Mary's  great  anguish  share ; 
And  learn,  for  the  sake  of  her 

Son  divine, 

Thy  cross,  like  His,  to  bear. 
The  sorrows  that  weigh  on  thy 

soul  unite 
With  those  which  thy   Lord 

has  borne, 

And  Mary  will  comfort  thy  dy- 
ing hour, 
Nor  leave  thy  soul  forlorn. 

O  to  have  seen  what  we  now 

adore, 
And,  though  veiled  to  faithless 

sight, 
To  have  known,  in  the  form  that 

Jesus  wore, 
The  Lord  of  Life  and  Light ! 


214 


THREEFOLD. 


Hush!  for  He  dwells  among  us 

still, 

And  a  grace  can  yet  be  thine, 
Which  the  scoffer  and  doubter 

can  never  know, — 
The  Presence  of  the  Divine. 
Jesus  is  with  His  children  yet, 
For  His  word  can  never  de- 
ceive ; 

Go  where  His  lowly  Altars  rise, 
And  worship,  and  believe. 


OUR  DAILY  BREAD. 

GIVE  us  our  daily  Bread, 

O  God,  the  bread  of  strength  ! 
For  we  have  learnt  to  know 

How  weak  we  are  at  length. 
As  children  we  are  weak, 

As  children  must  be  fed  ;  — 
Give  us  Thy  Grace,  O  Lord, 

To  be  our  daily  Bread. 

Give  us  our  daily  Bread,  — 

The  bitter  bread  of  grief. 
We  sought  earth's  poisoned  feasts 

For  pleasure  and  relief; 
We  sought  her  deadly  fruits, 

But  now,  O  God,  instead, 
We  ask  Thy  healing  grief 

To  be  our  daily  Bread. 

Give  us  our  daily  Bread 
To  cheer  our  fainting  soul ; 

The  feast  of  comfort,  Lord, 
Aud  peace,  to  make  us  whole  : 


For  we  are  sick  of  tears, 

The  useless  tears  we  shed ;  — 

Now  give  us  comfort,  Lord, 
To  be  our  daily  Bread. 

Give  us  our  daily  Bread, 

The  Bread  of  Angels,  Lord, 
By  us,  so  many  times, 

Broken,  betrayed,  adored : 
His  Body  and  His  Blood  ;  — 

The  feast  that  Jesus  spread  : 
Give  Him  —  our  life,  our  all  — 

To  be  our  daily  Bread  ! 


THREEFOLD. 

MOTHER  of  grace  and  mercy, 

Behold  how  burdens  three 
Weigh  down  my  weary  spirit, 

And  drive  me  here  —  to  Thee. 
Three  gifts  I  place  forever 

Before  thy  shrine : 
The  threefold  offering  of  my  love, 

Mary,  to  thine ! 

The  Past :  with  all  its  memories, 

Of  pain  —  that  stings  me  yet ; 
Of  sin  —  that    brought   repent- 
ance; 

Of  joy  —  that  brought  regret. 
That  which  has  been  :  —  forever 

So  bitter-sweet  — 
I  lay  in  humblest  offering 

Before  thy  feet. 


OR  A  PRO  ME. 


215 


The  Present :  that  dark  shadow 

Through  which  we  toil  to-day  ; 
The  slow  drops  of  the  chalice 

That  must  not  pass  away. 
Mother  !  I  dare  not  struggle, 

Still  less  despair : 
I  place  my  Present  in  thy  hands, 

And  leave  it  there. 

The  Future  :  holding  all  things 

Which  I  can  hope  or  fear, 
Brings  sin  and  pain,  it  may  be, 

Nearer  and  yet  more  near. 
Mother  !  this  doubt  and  shrink- 
ing 

"Will  not  depart, 
Unless  I  trust  my  Future 

To  thy  dear  Heart. 

Making  the  Past  my  lesson, 

Guiding  the  Present  right, 
Ruling  the  misty  Future,  — 

Bless  them  and  me  to-night. 
What  may  be,  and  what  must  be, 

And  what  has  been, 
In  thy  dear  care  forever 

I  leave,  my  Queen ! 


CONFIDO      ET     CONQUI- 
.  ESCO. 

"  Seit  ;   potest  ;  vult:    quid  est  quod 
timeamus  ?  "  -s-  S.  IGNATIUS. 

FRET  not,  poor  soul :  while  doubt 

and  fear 
Disturb  thy  breast, 


The  pitying  angels,  who  can  see 

How  vain  thy  wild  regret  must  be, 

Say,  Trust  and  Rest. 

Plan   not,    nor    scheme,  —  but 

calmly  wait ; 
His  choice  is  best. 
While  blind  and  erring  is  thy 

sight, 

His  wisdom  sees  and  judges  right, 
So  Trust  and  Rest. 

Strive   not,   nor   struggle:   thy 

poor  might 
Can  never  wrest 
The  meanest  thing  to  serve  thy 

will ; 

All  power  is  His  alone :  Be  still, 
And  Trust  and  Rest. 

Desire  not :  self-love  is  strong 

Within  thy  breast ; 
And  yet  He  loves  thee  better  still, 
So  let  Him  do  His  loving  will, 

And  Trust  and  Rest. 

What  dost  thou  fear  ?     His  wis- 
dom reigns 
Supreme  confessed  ; 
His  power  is  infinite  ;  his  love 
Thy    deepest,    fondest    dreams 

above ; — 
So  Trust  and  Rest. 


ORA  PRO   ME. 

AVE  MARIA  !  bright  and  pure, 
Hear,  O  hear  me  when  I  pray  ! 


216 


Pains  and  pleasures  try  the  pil- 
grim 

On  his  long  and  weary  way  ; 
Fears    and    perils    are    around 
me,  — 

Ora  pro  me. 

Mary,  see  my  heart  is  burdened, 
Take,  O  take  the  weight  away, 
Or  help  me,  that  I  may  not  mur- 
mur 

If  it  is  a  cross  you  lay 
On  my  weak  and  trembling  heart, 
—  but 

Ora  pro  me. 

Mary,  Mary,  Queen  of  Heaven  ! 

Teach,  0  teach  me  to  obey  : 
Lead  me  on,  though  fierce  temp- 
tations 

Stand  and  meet  me  in  the  way ; 
When  I  fail  and  faint,  my  mother, 
Ora  pro  me. 

Then  shall  I  — if  thou,  O  Mary, 
Art  my  strong   support  and 

stay  — 

Fear  nor  feel  the  threefold  danger 
Standing  forth  in  dread  array  ; 
Now  and  ever  shield  and  guard  me, 
Ora  pro  me. 

When  my  eyes  are  slowly  closing, 
And  I  fade  from  earth  away, 
And  when  Death,  the  stern  de- 
stroyer, 

Claims  my  body  as  his  prey,  — 
Claim  my  soul,  and  then,  sweet 
Mary, 

Ora  pro  me. 


FISHERS   OF  MEN. 

THE    CHURCH   IN    1849. 


0  MIGHTY  Mother,  hearken  !   for 

thy  foes 

Gather  around  thee,  and  ex- 
ulting cry 
That  thine  old  strength  is  gone 

and  thou  must  die, 
Pointing  with  fierce  rejoicing  to 

thy  woes. 

And  is  it  so  1     The  raging  whirl- 
wind blows 
No  stronger  now  than  it  has 

done  of  yore  : 
Rebellion,  strife,  and  sin  have 

been  before ; 
The  same  companions  whom  thy 

Master  chose. 
We   too  rejoice  :  we   know  thy 

might  is  more 
When  to  the  world  thy  glory 

seemeth  dim  ; 
Nor  can  Hell's  gates  prevail  to 

conquer  Thee, 
Who  hearest  over  all  the  voice 

of  Him 

Who  chose  thy  first  and  great- 
est Prince  should  be 
A  fisher  on  the  Lake  of  Galilee. 


FISHERS   OF  MEN. 

• 
THE  boats  are  out,  and  the  storm 

is  high; 
We  kneel  OD  the  shore  and 
pray; 


THE  OLD   YEAR'S  BLESSING. 


217 


The  Star  of  the  Sea  shines  still  in 

the  sky, 
And  God  is  our  help  and  stay. 


The  fishers  are  weak,  and  the 

tide  is  strong, 
And    their  boat  seems  slight 

and  frail ; 
But  St.  Peter  has  steered  it  for 

them  so  long, 

It  would  weather  a  rougher 
gale. 


St.  John  the  Beloved  sails  with 

them  too, 
And   his   loving    words    they 

hear ; 
So  with  tender  trust  the  boat's 

brave  crew 
Neither  doubt,  or  pause,  or  fear. 


He  who  sent  them  fishing  is  with 

them  still, 
And  He  bids  them  cast  their 

net; 
And  He  has  the  power  their  boat 

to  fill, 
So  we  know  He  will  do  it  yet. 


They  have  cast  their  nets  again 

and  again, 

And  now  call  to  us  on  shore  ; 
If  our  feeble  prayers  seem  only 

in  vain, 

We  will   pray  and  pray  the 
more. 


Though  the  storm  is  loud,  and 

our  voice  is  drowned 
By  the  roar  of  the  wind  and 

sea, 
We   know   that    more    terrible 

tempests  found 
Their  Ruler,  O  Lord,  in  Thee! 

See,  they  do  not  pause,  they  are 

toiling  on, 

Yet  they  cast  a  loving  glance 
On  the  star  above,  and  ever  anon 
Look  up  through  the  blue  ex- 
panse. 

O  Mary,  listen  !    for  danger  is 

nigh, 
And  we  know  thou  art  near 

us  then ; 
For  thy  Son's  dear  servants  to 

thee  we  cry, 
Sent  out  as  fishers  of  men. 

O,  watch,  —  as  of  old  thou  didst 

watch  the  boat 
On  the  Galilean  lake,  — 
And  grant  that  the  fishers  may 

keep  afloat 

Till  the  nets,  o'ercharged,  shall 
break. 


THE  OLD  YEAR'S  BLESS- 
ING. 

I  AM  fading  from  you, 
But  one  draweth  near, 

Galled  the  Angel-guardian 
Of  the  coming  year. 


218 


EVENING   CHANT. 


If  my  gifts  and  graces 

Coldly  you  forget, 
Let  the  New- Year's  Angel 

Bless  and  crown  them  yet. 

For  we  work  together  ; 

He  and  I  are  one  : 
Let  him  end  and  perfect 

All  I  leave  undone. 

I  brought  Good  Desires, 
Though  as  yet  but  seeds  ; 

Let  the  New- Year  make  them 
Blossom  into  Deeds. 

I  brought  Joy  to  brighten 

Many  happy  days ; 
Let  the  New- Year's  Angel 

Turn  it  into  Praise. 

If  I  gave  you  Sickness, 
If  I  brought  you  Care, 

Let  him  make  one  Patience, 
And  the  other  Prayer. 

Where  I  brought  you  Sorrow, 
Through  his  care,  at  length, 

It  may  rise  triumphant 
luto  future  Strength. 

If  I  brought  you  Plenty, 

All  wealth's  bounteous  charms, 
Shall  not  the  New  Angel 

Turn  them  into  Alms  ? 

I  gave  Health  and  Leisure, 
Skill  to  dream  and  plan ; 


Let- him  make  them  nobler  ;  — 
Work  for  God  and  Man. 

If  I  broke  your  Idols, 

Showed  you  they  were  dust, 
Let  him  turn  the  Knowledge 

Into  heavenly  Trust. 

If  I  brought  Temptation, 

Let  sin  die  away 
Into  boundless  Pity 

For  all  hearts  that  stray. 

If  your  list  of  Errors 
Dark  and  long  appears, 

Let  this  new-born  Monarch 
Melt  them  into  Tears. 

May  you  hold  this  Angel 
Dearer  than  the  last,  — 

So  I  bless  his  Future, 

While  he  crowns  my  Past. 


EVENING   CHANT. 

STREW  before  our  Lady's  Picture 
Roses,  —  flushing  like  the  sk 

Where    the    lingering    western 

cloudlets 
Watch  the  daylight  die. 

Violets  steeped  in  dreamy  odors 
Humble  as  the  Mother  mild, 

Blue   as   were   her  eyes    when 

watching 
O'er  her  sleeping  Child. 


A   CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 


219 


Strew  white  Lilies,  pure  and  spot- 
less, 
Bending  on    their    stalks   of 

green, 

Bending  down  with  tender  pity, — 
Like  our  Holy  Queen. 

Let  the  flowers  spend  their  fra- 
grance 
On    our    Lady's    own    dear 

shrine, 
While   we   claim   her  gracious 

helping 
Near  her  Son  divine. 

Strew  before  our  Lady's  picture 
Gentle  flowers,  fair  and  sweet ; 

Hope,  and  Fear,  and  Joy,  and 

Sorrow, 
Place,  too,  at  her  feet. 

Hark  !  the  Angelas  is  ringing,  — 
Ringing  through   the   fading 
light, 

In  the  heart  of  every  Blossom 
Leave  a  prayer  to-night. 

All  night  long  will  Mary  listen, 
While  our  pleadings  fond  and 
deep 

On  their  scented  breath  are  rising 
For  us  —  while  we  sleep. 

Scarcely  through  the  starry  si- 
lence 

Shall  one  trembling  petal  stir, 
While   they    breathe    their  own 

sweet  fragrance 
And  our  prayers  —  to  Her. 


Peace  to  every  heart  that  loves 

her! 

•     All  her  children  shall  be  blest : 
While  She  prays  and  watches  for 

us, 
We  will  trust  and  rest. 


A    CHRISTMAS   CAROL. 

THE  moon  that  now  is  shining 

In  skies  so  blue  and  bright, 
Shone  ages  since  on  Shepherds 

Who  watched  their  flocks  by 

night. 

There  was   no  sound  upon  the 
earth, 

The  azure  air  was  still, 
The  sheep  in  quiet  clusters  lay 

Upon  the  grassy  hill. 

When  lo  !  a  white-winged  Angel 

The  watchers  stood  before, 
And  told  how  Christ  was  born 
on  earth, 

For  mortals  to  adore  ; 
He  bade  the  trembling  Shepherds 

Listen,  nor  be  afraid, 
And  told  how  in  a  manger 

The  glorious  Child  was  laid. 

When  suddenly  in  the  Heavens 
Appeared  an  Angel  band, 

(The  while  in  reverent  wonder 
The  Syrian  Shepherds  stand.) 


220 


OUR   TITLES. 


And  all  the  bright  host  chanted 
Words  that  shall  never  cease,  — 

Glory  to  God  in  the  highest, 
Ou  earth  good-will  and  peace  ! 

The  vision  in  the  heavens 

Faded,  and  all  was  still, 
And   the   wondering   shepherds 
left  their  flocks, 

To  feed  upon  the  hill : 
Towards  the  blessed  city 

Quickly  their  course  they  held, 
And  in  a  lowly  stable 

Virgin  and  Child  beheld. 

Beside  a  humble  manger 

Was  the  Maiden  Mother  mild. 
And  in  her  arms  her  Son  divine, 

A  new-born  Infant,  smiled. 
No  shade  of  future  sorrow 

From  Calvary  then  was  cast ; 
Only  the  glory  was  revealed, 

The  suffering  was  not  passed. 

The  Eastern  kings   before   him 

knelt", 

And  rarest  offerings  brought ; 
The  shepherds  worshipped  and 

adored 
The      wonders      God      had 

wrought : 
They  saw  the  crown  for  Israel's 

King, 

The  future's  glorious  part :  — 
But  all  these  things  the  Mother 

kept 
And  pondered  in  her  heart. 

Now  we  that  Maiden  Mother 
The  Queen  of  Heaven  call ; 


And  the  Child  we  call  our  Jesus, 

Saviour  and  Judge  of  all. 
But  the  star  that  shone  in  Beth- 
lehem 
Shines   still,   and    shall    not 

cease, 

And  we  listen  still  to  the  tidings, 
Of  Glory  and  of  Peace. 


OUR   TITLES. 

ARE   we  not  Nobles  ?  we  who 

trace 

Our  pedigree  so  high 
That  God  for  us  and  for  our  race 

Created  Earth  and  Sky, 
And  Light   and  Air  and  Time 

and  Space, 
To  serve  us  and  then  die. 

Are  we  not  Princes  ?   we   who 

stand 

As  heirs  beside  the  Throne ; 
We  who  can  call  the  promised 

Land 

Our  Heritage,  our  own  ; 
And  answer  to  no  less  command 
Than  God's  and  His  alone. 

Are  we  not  Kings  ?  both  night 

and  day, 

From  early  until  late, 
About  our  bed,  about  our  way, 

A  guard  of  Angels  wait ; 
And  so  we  watch  and  work  and 

pray 
In  more  than  royal  state. 


MINISTERING  ANGELS. 


221 


Are  we  not  holy  ?     Do  not  start : 
It  is  God's  sacred  will 

To  call  us  Temples  set  apart 
His  Holy  Ghost  may  fill : 

Our  very  food  .  .  .  .  O  hush,  my 

Heart, 
Adore  IT  and  be  still! 

Are  we  not  more  ?  our  Life  shall 
be 

Immortal  and  divine. 
The  nature  Mary  gave  to  Thee, 

Dear  Jesus,  still  is  Thine ; 
Adoring  in  Thy  Heart,  I  see 

Such  blood  as  beats  in  mine. 

O  God,  that  we  can  dare  to  fail, 
And  dare  to  say  we  must ! 

O  God,  that  we  can  ever  trail 
Such  banners  in  the  dust, 

Can  let  such  starry  honors  pale, 
And  such  a  Blazon  rust ! 

Shall  we  upon  such  Titles  bring 
The  taint  of  sin  and  shame  ? 

Shall   we,    the   children   of  the 

King 
Who  hold  so  grand  a  claim, 

Tarnish  by  any  meaner  thing 
The  glory  of  our  name  ? 


MINISTERING   ANGELS. 

ANGELS   of  light,  spread  your 

bright  wings  and  keep 
Near  me  at  morn  : 


Nor  in  the  starry  eve,  nor  mid- 
night deep, 
Leave  me  forlorn. 


From  all  dark  spirits  of  unholy 

power 

Guard  my  weak  heart, 
Circle  around  me  in  each  peril- 
ous hour, 
And  take  my  part. 

From   all   foreboding    thoughts 

and  dangerous  fears, 
Keep  me  secure ; 
Teach  me  to  hope,  and  through 

the  bitterest  tears 
Still  to  endure. 

If  lonely  in  the  road  so  fair  and 

wide 

My  feet  should  stray, 
Then  through  a  rougher,  safer 

pathway  guide 
Me  day  by  day. 

Should  my  heart  faint  at  its  un- 
equal strife, 
O  still  be  near ! 
Shadow  the  perilous   sweetness 

of  this  life 
With  holy  fear. 

Then  leave  me  not  alone  in  this 

bleak  world, 
Where'er  I  roam, 
And  at  the  end,  with  your  bright 

wings  unfurled, 
0  take  me  home ! 


222 


THE  SHRINES   OF  MARY. 


THE   SHRINES   OF  MARY. 

THERE  arc  many  shrines  of  Our 
Lady, 

In  different  lands  and  climes, 
Where  I  can  remember  kneeling 

In  old  and  belove'd  times. 

They  arise  now  like  stars  before 

me, 
Through  the  long,  long  night 

of  years ; 
Some  are  bright  with  a  heavenly 

radiance, 

And  others  shine  out  through 
tears. 

They  arise  too  like  mystical  flow- 
ers, 
All    different,     and    all    the 

same,  — 

As  they  lie  in  my  heart  like  a  gar- 
land 

That  is  wreathed  round  Mary's 
name. 

Thus  each  shrine  has  two  conse- 
crations ; 

One  all  the  faithful  can  trace, 
But  one  is  for  me  and  me  only, 

Holding  my  soul  with  its  grace. 


I. 

A  shrine  in  a  quaint  old  Chapel 

Defaced  and  broken  with  years, 

Where  the   pavement   is   worn 

with  kneeling, 

And  the  step  with  kisses  and 
tears. 


She  is  there  in  the  dawn  of  morn- 
ing, 
When  the  day   is   blue   and 

bright, 

In  the  shadowy  evening  twlighti 
And  the  silent,  starry  night. 

Through  the  dim  old  painted  win- 
dow 
The  Hours   look   down,   and 

shed 

A  different  glory  upon  her, 
Violet,  purple,  and  red. 

And  there  —  in  that  quaint  old 

Chapel 

As  I  stood  one  day  alone — 
Came  a  royal  message  from  Mary. 
That  claimed  my  life  as  her 
own. 

II. 

I  remember  a  vast  Cathedral 
Which  holds  the  struggle  and 

strife 

Of  a  grand  and  powerful  city, 
As  the  heart  holds  the  throb  of 
a  life. 

Where  the  ebb  and  the  flow  of 

passion, 

And  sin  in  its  rushing  tide, 
Have  dashed  on  that  worn  stone 

chapel, 
Dashed,  and  broken,  and  died. 

And  above  the  voices  of  sorrow 
And  the  tempter's  clamorous 
•din, 


THE  SHRINES    OF  MARY. 


223 


The  voice  of  Mary  has  spoken 
And  conquered  the  pain  and 
the  sin: 

For  long  ages  and  generations 
Have  come  there  to  strive  and 

to  pray ; 
She  watched  and  guided  them 

living, 

And  does  not  forget  them  to- 
day. 

And  once,  in  that  strange,  vast 
City 

I  stood  in  its  great  stone  square, 
Alone  in  the  crowd  and  the  turmoil 

Of  the  pitiless  Southern  glare  ; 

And  a  grief  was  upon  my  spirit, 
Which  I  could  not  cast  away, 

It  weighed  on  my  heart  all  the 

night-time, 
And  it  fretted  my  life  all  day. 

So  then  to  that  calm,  cool  refuge 
I  turned  from  the  noisy  street, 

And  I  carried  my  burden  of  sor- 
•    row  — 
And  left  it  at  Mary's  feet. 


III. 

I  remember  a  lonely  chapel 
With  a  tender  claim  upon  me  ; 

It  was  built  for  the  sailors  only, 
And  they  call  it  the  Star  of  the 
Sea. 


And  the  murmuring  chant  of  the 

Vespers 

Seems  caught  up  by  the  wail- 
ing breeze, 
And  the  throb  of  the  organ  is 

echoed 
By  the  rush  of  the  silver  seas. 

And  the  votive  hearts  and  the 

anchors 

Tell  of  danger  and  peril  past ; 
Of  the  hope  deferred  and  the  wait- 
ing. 

And  the  comfort  that  came  at 
last. 


I  too  had  a  perilous  venture 
On  a  stormy  and  treacherous 

main, 

And  I  too  was  pleading  to  Mary 
From  the  depths  of  a  heart  in 
pain. 

It  was  not  a  life  in  peril,  — 

O  God,  it  was  far,  far  more  ! 
And    the    whirlpool    of    Hell's 

temptations 

Lay  between  the  wreck  and  the 
shore. 


Thick  mists  hid  the  light  of  the 

beacon, 
And  the  voices    of  warning 

were  dumb ; 

So  I  knelt  by  the  Altar  of  Mary, 
And  told  her  Her  hour  was 


224 


THE  SHRINES  OF  MART. 


For  she  waits  till  Earth's  aid  for- 
sakes us, 
Till  we  know  our  own  efforts 

are  vain  ; 
And  we  wait,  in  our  faithless 

blindness, 

Till  no  chance  but  her  prayers 
remain. 

And  now  in  that  seaside  chapel 

By  that  humble  village  shrine 

Hangs  a  heart  of  silver,  that  tells 

her 

Of  the  love  and  the  gladness 
of  mine. 


IV. 

There  is  one  far  shrine  I  remem- 
ber 

In  the  years  that  are  fled  away, 
Where  the  grand  old  mountains 

are  guarding 
The  glories  of  night  and  day. 

Where  the  earth  in  her  rich,  glad 

beauty 
Seems  made  for  our  Lady's 

throne, 
And  the  stars  in  their  radiant 

clusters 
Seem  fit  for  her  crown  alone. 

Where  the  balmy  breezes  of  sum- 
mer 
On  their  odorous  pinions  bear 


The    fragrance   of  orange-blos- 
soms, 

And  the  chimes  of  the  Convent 
prayer. 

There  I  used  to  ask  for  Her  bless- 
ing 
As  each  summer  twilight  was 

gray; 

There  I  used  to  kneel  at  her  Altar 
At  each  blue,  calm  dawn  of 
day. 

There   in   silence   was  Victory 

granted, 

And  the  terrible  strife  begun, 
That  only  with  Her  protection 
Could  be  dared,  or  suffered,  or 
won. 


If  I  love  the  name  of  that  Altar, 
And  the  thought  of  those  clays 

gone  by, 

It  is  only  the  Heart  of  Mary 
And  my  own  that  rememb 
why. 


V. 

Where  long  ages  of  toil  and  < 

sorrow, 

And  Poverty's  weary  doom 

Have  clustered  together  so  close 

That  life  seems  shadowed  wi 

gloom, 

Where  crime   that  lurks  in  thi 

darkness 
And  vice  that  glares  at  the  da; 


THE  SHRINES   OF  MARY. 


225 


Make  the  spirit  of  hope   grow 

weary, 
And  the  spirit  of  love  decay, 

Where  the  feet  of  the  wretched 

and  sinful 

Have  closest  and  oftenest  trod, 
Is  a  house,  as  humble  as  any, 
Yet  we  call  it  the  House  of 
God. 

It  is  one  of  our  Lady's  Chapels  ; 
And  though  poorer  than  all 

the  rest, 
Just  because  of  the  siu  and  the 

sorrow, 
I  think  she  loves  it  the  best 

There  are  no  rich  gifts  on  the 

Altar, 

The  shrine  is  humble  and  bare, 
Yet  the  poor  and  the  sick  and  the 

tempted 

Think  their  home  and  their 
heaven  is  there. 

And  before  that  humble  Altar 
Where  Our  Lady  of  Sorrow 
stands, 

I  knelt  with  a  weary  longing, 
And  I  laid  a  vow  in  her  hands. 

And  I  know,  when  I  enter  softly 
And   pause  at  that  shrine  to 

pray, 
That  the  fret  and  the  strife  and 

the  burden 
Will  be  softened  and  laid  away. 


And  the  Prayer  and  the  Vow  that 

sealed  it 
Have   bound  my  soul  to  that 

shrine, 

For  the  Mother  of  Sorrows  re- 
members 

Her  promise,  and   waits   for 
mine. 


It  is  one  long  chaplet  of  memo- 
ries 

Tender  and  true  and  sweet, 
That  gleam  in  the  Past  and  the 

Distance 

Like  lamps  that  burn  at  her 
feet. 

Like  stars  that  will  shine  forever, 
For  time  cannot  touch  or  stir 

The  graces  that  Mary  has  given, 
Or  the  trust  that  we  give  to 
her. 

Past  griefs  are  perished  and  over, 
Past  joys  have  vanished  and 
died, 

Past  loves  are  fled  and  forgotten, 
Past  hopes  have  been  laid  aside. 

Past  fears  have  faded  in  daylight, 
Past  sins  have  melted  in 

tears  ;  — 
One    Love   and    Remembrance 

only 

Seems  alive  in  those  dead  old 
old  years. 


228 


THE  HOMELESS  POOR. 


So  wherever  I  look  in  the   dis- 
tance, 
And  whenever  I  turn  to  the 

Past, 

There  is  always  a  shrine  of  Mary 
Each  brighter  still  than  the  last. 


I   will   ask    for   one   grace,   O 

Mother ! 
And  will  leave  the  rest  to  thy 

will: 

From  one  shrine  of  thine  to  an- 
other, 

Let  my  Life  be  a  Pilgrimage 
still ! 


At  each  one,  O  Mother  of  Mercy ! 
Let  still  more  of  thy  love  be 

given, 
Till  I   kneel  at  the  last  and 

brightest,  — 

The  Throne  of  the  Queen  of 
Heaven. 


THE   HOMELESS  POOE. 

CALM  the  city  lay  in  midnight 

silence, 
Deep  on  streets  and  roofs  the 

snow  lay  white ; 
Then  I  saw  an  Angel  spread  his 

pinions 

Rising  up  to  Heaven  to  meet 
the  iiight. 


In  his  hands  he  bore  twp  crowns 

of  lilies, 
Sweet  with  sweetness  not  of 

earthly  flowers, 
But   a   coronal   of  prayers   for 

Heaven 

He  had  gathered  through  the 
evening  hours ; — 

He  had  gathered  in  that  mighty 

city 
Through   whose   streets   and 

pathways  he  had  trod, 
Till  he  wove  into  a  winter  gar- 
land 

Prayers    that    faithful    hearts 
had  sent  to  God. 

Through  the  azure  midnight  he 

was  rising ; 
As  1  watched,  I  saw  his  upward 

flight 
Checked    by   a   mighty   Angel, 

whose  stern  challenge, 
Like    a   silver     blast,     rang 
through  the  night. 

Then   strange  words   upon  the 

silence  broke, 
And  I  listened  as   the  Angels 

spoke. 


THE    ANGEL    OF    PRATERS. 

'  I  have  come  from  wandering 

through  the  city, 
I  have  been  to  seek  a  garland 
meet 


THE  HOMELESS  POOR. 


227 


To  be  placed  before  His  throne 

in  Heaven, 

To  be  laid  at  His  dear  Moth- 
er's feet. 

"  I  have  been  to  one  of  England's 

Havens,  — 
To  a  HOME   for    peace  and 

honor  planned, 
Where  the  kindly  lights  of  joy 

and  duty 

Meet  and  make  the  glory  of 
the  land. 

"  There   I   heard    the   ring   of 

children's  laughter 
Hushed  to   eager  silence ;    I 

could  see 
How   the   father    stroked   their 

golden  tresses 

As  they  clustered  closer  round 
his  knee. 

"  And  I  heard  him  tell,  with  lov- 
ing honor, 

How  the  wanderers  to  Bethle- 
hem came, 

And  I  saw  each  head  in  rever- 
ence bowing 

When    he   named    the  Holy 
Child's  dear  name. 

"  Then  he   told  how  houseless, 

homeless,  friendless, 
They  had    wandered  wearily 

and  long,  — 
Of  the  manger  where  our  Lord 

was  cradled, 

Of  the  Shepherds  listening  to 
our  song. 


"  As  he  spoke,  I  heard  his  accents 

falter, 
And  I  saw  each  childish  heart 

was  stirred 
With  a  loving   throb  of  tender 

pity 

At  the  sorrowful,  sweet  tale 
they  heard. 

"As   the   children    sang    their 

Christmas  carol 
I  could  see  the  mother's  eyes 

grow  dim, 
And  she  held  her  baby  closer,  — 

feeling 

Most  for  Mary  through  her 
love  for  him. 

"  So  I  gathered  from  that  home, 

as  flowers, 
All  the  tender,  loving  words  I 

heard 
Given  this  night  to  Jesus  and  to 

Mary,  — 

Look  at  them,  and  say  if  I 
have  erred." 


THE    ANGEL    OF    DEEDS. 

"  In  that  very  street,  at  that  same 

hour, 
In  the  bitter  air  and  drifting 

sleet, 
Crouching  in  a  doorway  was  a 

mother, 

With  her  children  shuddering 
at  her  feet. 


228 


THE  HOMELESS  POOR. 


"  She  was  silent ;  —  who  would 

hear  her  pleading  ? 
Men  and  beasts  were  housed ; 

but  she  must  stay 
Houseless  in  the  great  and  piti- 
less city, 

Till  the  dawning  of  the  winter 
day. 

"  Homeless  —  while  her  fellow- 
men  are  resting 
Calm    and    blest :  their   very 

dogs  are  fed, 
Warm  and  sheltered,  and  their 

sleeping  children 
Safely  nestled  in  each  little  bed. 

"  She  can  only  draw  her  poor 

rags  closer 
Round  her  wailing  baby,  — 

closer  hold 
One,   the  least  and  sickliest,  — 

while  the  others 
Creep  together,  tired,  hungry, 
cold. 

"What  are  these  poor  flowers 

thou  hast  gathered  ? 
Cast  such   fragile,   worthless 

tokens  by : 
Will  He  prize  mere  words  of  love 

and  honor 

While  His  Homeless  Poor  are 
left  to  die  ? 

"  He  has  said  —  His  truths  are  all 

eternal  — 

What  He  said  both  has  been 
and  shall  be,  — 


What  ye  have  not  done  to  these  my 

poor  ones, 

Lo  !  ye  have  not  done  it  unto 
Me." 

Then  I  saw  the  Angel  with  the 

flowers 
Bow  his  head  and  answer,  "  It 

is  well," 
As  he   cast  a  wreath    of  lilies 

earthward, 

And  I  saw  them  wither  as  they 
fell. 

Once  again  the  Angel  raised  his 

head, 
Smiled   and    showed    the  other 

wreath  and  said  :  — 


THE    ANGEL    OF    PRAYERS. 


''  I  have  been  where,  kneeling  at 

the  Altar, 
Hushed   in   reverent   awe,   a 

faithful  throng 
Have  this  night  adored  the  Hoi 

Presence, 

Worshipping    with     incense 
prayer,  and  song. 


"  Every  head  was  bowed  in  lov- 
ing honor, 
Every  heart  with  loving  awe 

was  thrilled  ; 
Earth  and  things  of  earth  seemed 

all  forgotten ; 

He  was  there  —  and   meaner 
thoughts  were  stilled. 


a 

: 


THE  HOMELESS  POOR. 


229 


"  There  on  many  souls  in  strait 

and  peril 
Did  that  gracious  Benediction 

fall, 
With  the   strength   or  peace  or 

joy  or  warning 
He  could  give,  who  loved  and 
knew  them  all. 

"  There    was    silence,    but    all 

hearts  were  speaking : 
When   the    deepest   hush   of 

silence  fell, 

On  the  fragrant  air  and  breath- 
less longing 
Came  the  echo  of  one  silver  bell. 

"  On  each  spirit  such  a  flood  of 

sweetness 
Broke  —  as  we  who  dwell  in 

Heaven  feel, 

Then  the  Adoremus  in  eternum, 
Jubilant  and    strong,    rolled 
peal  on  peal. 

"  They  had  given  holy  adoration, 
Tender    words    of    love   and 

praise  ;  all  bright 
With  the  dew  of  contrite  tears  — 

such  blossoms 

I  am  bearing  to  His  throne  to- 
night." 


THE    ANGEL    OF    DEEDS. 

"  Pause  again  :  these  flowers  are 

fair  and  lovely, 
Radiant  in  their  perfume  and 
their  bloom ; 


But   not   far   from   where    you 

plucked  this  garland 
Is  a  squalid  place  in  ghastly 
gloom. 

"  There   black  waters   in   their 

luring  silence 
Under  loathsome  arches  crawl 

and  creep, 
There  the  rats  and  vermin  herd 

together .... 

There  God's  poor  ones  sometimes 
come  to  sleep. 

"  There  the  weary   come,   who 

through  the  daylight 
Pace  the  town,  and  crave  for 

work  in  vain ; 
There  they  crouch  in  cold  and 

rain  and  hunger, 
Waiting  for  another  day  of 
pain. 

"  In   slow  darkness   creeps   the 

dismal  river ; 
From  its  depths   looks  up  a 

sinful  rest ; 
Many  a  weary,  baffled,  hopeless 

wanderer 

Has  it  drawn  into  its  treacher- 
ous breast. 

"  There  is  near  another  River  flow- 
ing. 
Black  with  guilt,  and  deep  as 

hell  and  sin  ; 
On  its  brink  even  sinners  stand 

and  shudder,  — 
Cold  and   hunger    goad    the 
homeless  in. 


230 


THE  HOMELESS  POOR. 


"  Yet  these  poor  ones   to   His 

heart  are  dearer 
For  their  grief  and  peril :  dear 

indeed 
"Would  have  been  the  love  that 

sought  and  fed  them, 
Gave  them  warmth  and  shelter 
in  their  need. 

"  For  His  sake  those   tears  and 

prayers  are  offered 
Which  you  bear  as  flowers  to 

His  throne ; 
Better  still  would  be  the  food  and 

shelter, 

Given  for  Him   and  given  to 
His  own. 

"  Praise  with  loving  deeds  is  dear 

and  holy, 
Words   of  praise   will   never 

serve  instead : 
Lo  !  you  offer  music,  hymn,  and 

incense  — 

When  He  has  not  where  to  lay 
His  head." 

Then  once  more  the  Angel  with 

the  Flowers 
Bowed  his  head,  and  answered, 

"  It  is  well," 
As  he    cast   a  wreath   of  lilies 

earthwards, 

And  I  saw  them  wither  as  they 
fell. 

So  the  Vision  faded,   and   the 

Angels 
Melted  far  into  the  starry  sky ; 


By  the  light  upon  the  eastern 

Heaven 

I  could  see  another  day  was 
nigh. 

Was  it  quite  a  dream  ?  O  God  ! 

we  love  Him ; 
All  our  love,  though  weak,  is 

given  to  Him  ;  — 
Why  is  it  our  hearts  have  been 

so  hardened  ? 

Why  is  it  our  eyes  have  been 
so  dim  ? 

Still  as  for  Himself  the  Infant 

Jesus 
In  His  little  ones   asks  food 

and  rest,  — 
Still  as  for  His  Mother  He   is 

pleading 

Just  as  when  He  lay  upon  her 
breast. 

Jesus,  then,  and  Mary  still  are 

with  us,  — 
Night  will  find  the  Child  and 

Mother  near, 
Waiting  for  the  shelter  we  deny 

them, 

While  we  tell  them   that  we 
hold  them  dear. 

Help  us,  Lord !    not  these  Thy 

poor  ones  only, 
They  are  with  us  always,  and 

shall  be:  — 
Help  the  blindness  of  our  hearts, 

and  teach  us 

In  Thy  homeless  ones  to  suc- 
cor Thee. 


MILLTS  EXPIATION. 


231 


MILLY'S   EXPIATION. 
THE  PRIEST'S  STORY. 

i. 
THERE  arc  times  when  all  these 

terrors 

Seem  to  fade,  and  fade  away, 
Like  a  nightmare's  ghastly  pres- 
ence 

In  the  truthful  dawn  of  day. 
There  are  times,  too,  when  be- 
fore me 

They  arise,  and  seem  to  hold 
In  their  grasp  my  very  being 
With  the  deadly  strength  of 

old, 

Till  my  spirit  quails  within  me, 
And  my  very  heart  grows  cold. 


For  I  watched  when  Cold  and 

Hunger, 
Like  wild  beasts  that  sought 

for  prey, 

With  a  savage  glare  crept  on- 
ward 
Until    men   were    turned    at 

bay. 

You  have  never  seen  those  hunt- 
ers, 
Who  have  never  known  that 

fear, 
When   life   costs   a   crust,   and 

costing 

Even  that  is  still  too  dear : 
But,  you  know,  I  lived  in  Ire- 
land 
la  the  fatal  famine  year. 


Yes,  those  days  are  now  forgot- 
ten ; 
God   be   thanked !    men   can 

forget ; 
Time's  great   gift  can  heal  the 

fevers 

Called  Remembrance  and  Re- 
gret. 
Man  despises  such  forgetting ; 

But  I  think  the  Angels  know, 
Since  each  hour  brings  new  bur- 
dens, 
We   must   let   the   old   ones 

go,— 
Very  weak  or  very  noble 

Are  the  few  who  cling  to  woe. 


As  a  child,  I  lived  in  Connaught, 
And  from  dawn  till  set  of  sun 
Played   with    all    the    peasant- 
children, 

So  I  knew  them  every  one. 
There  was  not  a  cabin  near  us, 
But  I  had  my  welcome  there ; 
Though  of  money-help  in  those 

days 
We   had   none    ourselves    to 

spare, 

Yet  the  neighbors  had  no  trouble 
That   I   did  not   know    and 
share. 


O  that  great  estate !  the  Land- 
lord 
Was  abroad,  a  good  man  too; 


232 


MILLTS  EXPIATION. 


And  the  agent  was  not  cruel, 

But  he  had  hard  things  to  do. 
As  a  child  I  saw  great  suffering 
Which   I   could    not    under- 
stand, 

So  I  went  back  as  a  man  there 
With    redress     and     helping 

planned ; 

But  I  found,  on  reaching  Con- 
naught, 
There  was  famine  in  the  land. 


VI. 

Well,  I  worked,  I  toiled,  I  la- 
bored; 
So,   thank   God,    did    many 

more; 
But  I  had  a  special  pity 

For  the  place  I  knew  before. 
It  was  changed ;    the  old  were 

vanished ; 
Those  who  had  been  workers 

there 
Were  grown  old  now ;  and  the 

children, 
With  their   sunny  eyes   and 

hair, 

Were  a  ragged  army,  righting 
Hand  to  hand  with  black  de- 
spair. 


There  were  some  I  sought  out, 

longing 

For  the  old  familiar  face, 
For  the  hearty  Irish  welcome 
To    the    well-known    corner 
place ; 


So  I  saw  them,  and  I  found  it. 

But  of  all  whom  I  had  known, 
I  cared  most  to  see  the  Connors . 

Their  poor  cabin  stood  alone 
In  the  deep  heart  of  the  valley, 

By  the  old  gray  fairy  stone. 


They  were  decent  people,  hold- 
ing, 
Though   no  richer   than    the 

rest, 

Still  a  place  beyond  their  neigh- 
bors, 

With  a  tacit,  unconfessed 
Pride  —  it    may    have    been  — 

that  held  them 
From  complaint  when  things 

went  ill : 
I  might  guess  when  work  was 

slacker, 

But  no  shadow  seemed  to  chill 
The  warm  welcome  which  they 

offered  ; 
It  was  warm  and  cheerful  still. 


Yet  their  home  was  changed :  tl 

father 

And  the  mother  were  no  more; 
And  the  brothers,  Phil  and  Pat 

rick, 

Kept  starvation  from  the  door 

There  were  many  little  faces 

Gathered  round  the  old  heartl 

stone ; 


MILLTS  EXPIATION. 


233 


But  the  children   I  had  played 

with 
Were  the    men   and   women 

grown  ; 

Phil  and  Patrick,  Kate  and  Milly, 
Were  the  ones  whom  I  had 
known. 


Kate  was  grown,  but  little  al- 
tered, 

Just  the  sunburnt,  rosy  face, 
With  its  merry  smile,  whose  shin- 
ing 
Seemed  to  light  the  darkest 

place. 
But  all,   young    and  old,    held 

Milly 

As  their  dearest  and  their  best, 
From  the  baby  orphan-sisters 
Whom  she  hushed  upon   her 

breast,  — 

She  it  was  who  bore  the  burdens, 
Love  and  sorrow,  for  the  rest. 


Yes,  I  knew  the  tall  slight  figure, 

And  the  face  so  pale  and  fair, 
Crowned  with  long,  long  plaited 
tresses 

Of  her  shining  yellow  hair ; 
She  was  very  calm  and  tender, 

Warm  and  brave,  yet  just  and 

wise, 
Meeting  grief  with  tender  pity, 

Sin  with  sorrowful  surprise  : 
I  have  fancied  Angels  watch  us 

With  such  sad  and  loving  eyes. 


Well,  I  questioned  past  and  fut- 
ure, 
Heard  of  plans  and  hopes  and 

fears  ; 
How    all    prospects    grew    still 

darker 
With    the   shade    of  coming 

years. 

Milly  still  deferred  her  marriage ; 

But  the  brothers  urged  of  late 

She  would  leave  them  and  old 

Ireland, 

And  at  least  secure  her  fate  ; 
Michael  pleaded  too,  —  but  vain- 

iy; 

Milly  chose  to  wait  and  wait. 


Though  all  liked  her  cousin  Mi- 
chael, • — 

He  was  steady,  a  good  son,  — 

Yet  we  wondered  at  the  treasure 

Which  his  careless  heart  had 

won. 

Ah,  he  was  not  worth  her  !  Milly 
Must  have  guessed  our  thought 

in  part, 

For  she  feigned  such  special  def- 
erence 
For   his    judgment   and   his 

heart : 

The  detianee  and  the  answer 
Of  instinctive  woman's  art. 


But  my  duties  would  not  let  me 
Stay  in  one  place ;  I  must  go 


234 


MILL  Y'  S  EXPIA  Tl  ON. 


Where  the  want  and  need  were 

greatest ; 

So  I  travelled  to  and  fro. 
And  I  could  not  give  the  bounty 
Which  was  meant  for  all  to 

share, 

Save  in  scanty  portions,  counting 
What    each    hamlet   had   to 

bear ; 

So  my  old  home  and  old  com- 
rades 
Had  to  struggle  with  despair. 


I  could  note  at  every  visit 
How  all   suffered   more   and 

more  ; 
How    the    rich    were    growing 

poorer, 

The  poor,  poorer  than  before. 
And  each  time  that  I  returned 

there, 

I  could  see  the  famine  spread  ; 
Till  I  heard  of  each  fresh  horror, 
Each  new  taleof  fearand  dread, 
With  more  pity  for  the  living, 
More  rejoicing  for  the  dead. 


Yet  through  all  the  bitter  trials 

Of  that  long  and  fearful  time, 
Still  the  suffering  came  untendcd 

By  its  hideous  sister,  Crime. 
Earthly  things  seemed  grown  less 
potent, 

Fellow-sufferers  grown  more 

dear, 
Murmurs  even  hushed  in  silence, 

Just  as  if,  in  listening  fear, 


While  God  spoke  so  loud  in  sor- 
row, 
They  all  felt  He  must  be  near. 


But  one  day  —  I  well  remember 
How  the  warm  soft  autumn 

breeze, 

And  the  gladnessof  the  sunshine, 
And  the  calmness  of  the  seas, 
Seemed  in  strange  unnatural  con- 
trast 

To  the  tale  of  woe  and  dread 
Which  I  heard  with  painful  won- 
der, — 

That  the  agent  —  I  have  said 
That  he  was  not  harsh  or  cruel — 
Had   been  shot  at,  and  was 
dead. 


For  I  felt  in  that  small  hamlet 

More  or  less  I  knew  them  all, 
And  on  some  I  cared  for,  surely, 

Must  this  bitter  vengeance  fall ; 
But  I  little  dreamed  how  bitter, 

And  the  grief  how  great  and 

wide, 
Till  I  heard  that  Michael  Connor 

Was  accused,  and  would  be 

tried 
For  this  base  and  bloody  murder; 

Then  I  cried  out  that  they  lied ! 

XIX. 

He,  who  might  be  weak  and  reck- 
less, 
Yet  was  gentle  and  humane ; 


MILL  T  S  EXPIA  TJ  OX. 


235 


He  who  scarcely  had  the  courage 

To  inflict  a  needful  pain,  — 
Wliv,    it   could  not    be !     And 

'  Milly, 

With  her  honest,  noble  pride, 
And  her  faith  and  love,  God  help 

her! 

It  were  better  she  had  died. 
So  I  thought,  and  thought,  and 

pondered, 

'    Till  I  knew  they  must  have 
lied. 

xx. 

There  was  want  and  death  and 

hunger 
Near  me  then  ;  but  this  great 

crime 

Seemed  to  haunt  me  with  its  ter- 
ror, 
And   grow  worse  and  worse 

with  time, 

Till  I  could  not  bear  it  longer, 
And  I  turned  my  steps  once 

more 

To  the  hamlet ;  did  not  slacken 
Till  I  reached  the  cabin-door: 
Then  I  paused  ;  I  never  dreaded 
The  kind  welcome  there    be- 
fore. 


So  I  entered.     Kate  was  sitting 

By  the  empty  heart!) ;  around 

Were  the  children,  ragged,  hun- 

Croucliing      silent      on      the 
ground. 


But  a  wail  of  grief  and  sorrow 
Rose,  and  Katie  hid  her  face, 

Sobbing  out  she  had  no  welcome, 
For  a  curse  was  on  tne  place, 

And  their  honest  name  was  cov- 
ered 
With  another's  black  disgrace. 


Then  I  soothed  her;  asked  for 
Milly ; 

And  was  told  she  was  away ; 
Gone  as  witness  to  the  trial, 

And  the  trial  was  that  day. 
But  all  knew,  so  Katie  told  me, 

Hope   or   comfort   there  was 

none  ; 
They  were  sure  tofind  him  guilty, 

And  before  to-morrow's  sun 
He  must  die.     I  dared  not  loiter, 

For  the  trial  had  begun. 


Yet  I  asked  how  Milly  bore  it ; 
And  Kate  told  me  some  strange 

gleam 
Of  wild  hope  seemed  living  in 

her, 

But  all  knew  it  was  a  dream. 

Then  I  mounted ;  rode  on  faster, 

Faster    still ;     the    way   was 

long; 

Hope  and  anger,  fear  and  pity, 
Each  by  turns  were  loud  and 

strong, 

And  above  all,  infinite  pity 
For  the  sorrow  and  the  wrong. 


236 


MILLTS  EXPIATION. 


So  I  rode  and  rode,  and  entered 

On  the  crowded  market-place. 
There  was  wonder,  too,  and  pity 

Upon  many  a  hungry  face  ; 
But  I  pushed  on  quicker,  quicker, 

Every  moment  held  a  fate. 
As  the  great  town-clock  struck 
mid-day, 

I  alighted  at  the  gate : 
No,  the  trial  was  not  over; 

I  was  not,  thank  God,  too  late, 


For  I  hoped  —  the  chance  was 

meagre  — 
That   my   true    and    earnest 

word 

Might  avail  him,  if  the  question 

Of  his  former  life  was  stirred  ; 

So   the   crowd    believed :    they 

parted, 

Let  me  take  a  foremost  place, 
Till  I  saw  a  shaking  figure 

And  a  terror-stricken  face : 
Was  it  guilt,  or  only  terror  t 
Fear  of  death,  or  of  disgrace  ? 


XXVI. 

But  a  sudden  breathless  silence 
Hushed    the   lowest   whisper 

there, 

And  I  saw  a  slight  young  fig- 
ure 

Crowned  with  yellow  plaited 
hair, 


Rise,  and  answer  as  they  called 
her; 

Rise  before  them  all,  and  stand 
With  no  quiver  in  her  accent, 

And  no  trembling  in  her  han 
Just  a  flush  upon  her  forehead 

Like  a  burning  crimson  bran 


XXVII. 

Slowly,  steadily,  and  calmly, 
Then   the  awful  words  we 

said, 
Calling  God  in  Heaven  to  wi 

ness 

To  the  truth  of  what  she  sai< 
As  the  oath  in  solemn  order 

On  the  reverent  silence  brok 
Some  strange  terror  and  misgi 

ing 

With  a  sudden  start  awoke : 
What  fear  was  it  seized  upo 

me 

As   I   heard   the   words    si 
spoke  ? 


XXVIII. 

As  she  stood  there,  looking  on- 
ward, 

Onward,  neither  left  nor  right, 
Did  she  see  some  deadly  purpose 

Buried,  hidden  out  of  sight1? 
Did  she  see  a  blighting  shadow 

From  the  cloudy  future  castl 
Or  reluctant  fading  from  her 

Right    and    honor,  —  fading 
fast 


MILL r 8  EXPIATION. 


237 


All  her  youth's  remembered  les- 
sons, 
All  the  honest,  noble  past  ? 


But  her  accents  never  faltered, 
As  she   swore   the   day   and 

time, 
At  the  hour  of  the  murder, 

At  the  moment  of  the  crime, 
She  had  spoken  with  the  prison- 
er .... 

Then  a  gasping  joyful  sigh 
Ran  through  all  the  court ;  they 

knew  it,  — 
Now  the  prisoner  would  not 

die  .... 

And  I  knew  that  God  in  Heaven 
Had  been  witness  to  a  lie ! 


Then  I  turned  and   looked   at 

Michael ; 

Saw  a  rush  of  wonder  stir 
Through  his  soul ;  perplexed,  be- 
wildered, 

He  looked  strangely  up  at  her. 
Would  he  speak?  could  he  have 

courage  ? 
Where  she  fell,  could  he  be 

strong  ? 
Where  she  sinned,  and  sinned  to 

save  him, 
Could   he    thrust    away   the 

wrong  ? 

That  one  moment's  strange  re- 
vulsion 
Seemed  to  ine  an  hour  long. 


XXXI. 

And  I  saw  the  sudden  shrinking 
In  her  brothers ;    wondering 

scorn 

In  the  glance  they  cast  upon  her 
Showed    they  knew    she  was 

forsworn. 
They  were  stern,  by  want  made 

sterner ; 
But    the    spot   where    Milly 

came 

In  their  hearts  was  soft  and  ten- 
der 
For   her   dear   and    honored 

name  : 

Now  the  very  love  was  hardened, 
And    the    honor    turned    to 
shame. 


So  I  left  the  place,  nor  lingered 

To  see  Michael,  or  to  feign 
Joy  where   joy  was   mixed   so 

strangely 

Both  with  pity  and  with  pain. 

Many  weeks  I  toiled  and  labored 

Far  from  there,  but  night  and 

day 

One  sad  memory  dwelt  beside  me, 
On    my    heart    one    shadow 

lay ;  — 

Light  was  faded,  glory  tarnished, 
And  a  soul  was  cast  away. 


It  was  evening ;  and  the  sunset 
Glowed   and  glittered  on  the 

seas, 


238 


MILLTS  EXPIATION. 


When  a  great  ship  heaved  its  an- 
chor, 
Loosed  its  sails  to  meet    the 

breeze, 

Sailing,  sailing  to  the  westward. 
Eyes    were   wet    and    hearts 

were  sore ; 

Many  a  heart  that  left  its  conn- 
try, 

Many  a  heart  upon  the  shore, 
Knew  that  parting  was  forever, 
Said  farewell  forevermore. 


In  that  sad  and  silent  evening, 
On  the  sunny,  quiet  beach, 
Lingered  little  groups  of  watch- 
ers, 
But  with  hearts  too  full  for 

speech. 

As  I  passed,  I  knew  so  many, 
That  my  heart  ached  too  that 

night, 

^For  the  yearning  love,  that,  gaz- 
ing, 
Strained  to  see  the  last  faint 

sight 

Of  the  great  ship,  sailing  west- 
ward, 

Down   the   track   of  evening 
lurht. 


Ivone  were  lonely  though,  —  one 

sorrow 
Drew  that  evening  heart  to 

heart ; 

Only  far  from  all  the  others 
One  lone  woman  stood  apart. 


There  was  something  in  the  fi 

ure, 
Tall    and    slender,     standir 

there, 
That  I  knew  —  yet  no,  I  dout 

ed  — 

That  forlorn  and  helpless  ail 

When  a  gleam  of  sunset  glory 

Showed    her   yellow    braidc 

hair. 


It  was  Milly  :  ere  I  sought  her 
One  who  knew  her,  standin 

Said,  "  Her  people  sailed  froi 

Ireland, 
And  she  stayed,  but  none  kne^ 

why. 
They  were  strong ;  in  that  fa 

country 
Work  such  men  were  sure  t 

find; 

They  had  offered  to  take  Milly 
Pressed  her  often,  and   bee 

kind  ; 
They  had  taken  the  young  chi 

dren, 
Only  she  was  left  behind. 


"Michael,  too,  was  with  them 

doubly 
Had  his  fame  been  cleared  b 

time ; 

For  the  murderer,  lately  dying 
Had  confessed  and  owned  the 


A   CASTLE  IN  THE  AIR. 


239 


Andyet  Milly,  none  knew  where- 
fore, 
Broke  her  plighted  troth    to 

him  ; 
Parted,  too,  with  all  her  loved 

ones 
For  some  strange  and  selfish 

whim."  .  .  . 

O,  my  heart  was  sore  for  Milly, 
And  I  felt  my  eyes  grow  dim. 


She  is  still  in  Ireland  ;  dwelling 

Near  the  old  place,  and  alone ; 
Just  the  same  kind,  loving  spirit, 

But  the  old  light  heart  is  flown. 
When  the  humble  toil  is  over 

For  her  scanty  daily  bread, 
Then  she    turns   to   nurse    the 
suffering, 

Or  to  pray  beside  the  dead  : 
Many,  many  thankful  blessings 

Fall  each  day  upon  her  head. 


There  is  no  distress  or  sorrow 

Milly  does  not  try  to  cheer ; 
There  is  never  fever  raging 

But  you  always  find  her  near  ; 
And  she  knows  —  at  least  I  think 
so  — 

That  I  guess  her  secret  pain, 
"Why  her  Love  and  why  her  Sor- 
row 

Need  be  purified  from  stain, 
Need  in  special  consecration 

Be  restored  to  God  ntrain. 


A  CASTLE  IN  THE  AIR. 

I  BUILT  myself  a  castle, 
So  noble,  grand,  and  fair; 

I  built  myself  a  castle, 
A  castle  —  in  the  air. 

The  fancies  of  my  twilights 
That  fade  in  sober  truth, 

The  longing  of  my  sorrow, 
And  the  vision  of  my  youth ; 

The  plans  of  joyful  futures  ; 

So  dear  they  used  to  seem ; 
The  prayer  that  rose  unbidden, 

Half    prayer  —  and    half    a 
dream ; 

The  ho'pes  that  died  un  uttered 
Within  this  heart  of  mine  ;  -»- 

For  all  these  tender  treasures 
My  castle  was  the  shrine. 

I  looked  at  all  the  castles 
That  rise  to  grace  the  land, 

But  I  never  saw  another 
So  stately  or  so  grand. 

And  now  you  see  it  shattered, 

My  castle  in  the  air ; 
It  lies,  a  dreary  ruin, 

All  desolate  and  bare. 

I  cannot  build  another, 
I  saw  that  one  decay  ; 

And    strength   and   heart    and 

courage 
Died  out  the  self-same  day. 


240 


A  LEGEND. 


Yet  still,  beside  that  ruin, 

With  hopes  as  deep  and  fond, 

I  waited  with  an  infinite  longing, 
Only  —  I  look  beyond. 


PER  PACEM  AD   LUCEM. 

I  DO  not  ask,  O  Lord,  that  life 

may  be 

A  pleasant  road  ; 
I  do  not  ask  that  Thou  wouldst 

take  from  me 
Aught  of  its  load  ; 

I  do  not  ask  that  flowers  should 

always  spring 
Beneath  my  feet ; 
I  know  too  well  the  poison  and 

the  sting 
Of  things  too  sweet. 

For  one  thing  only,  Lord,  dear 

Lord,  I  plead, 
Lead  me  aright  — 
Though  strength  should  falter, 
and  though  heart  should 
bleed  — 
Through  Peace  to  Light. 

I  do  not  ask,  0  Lord,  that  thou 

shouldst  shed 
Full  radiance  here  ; 
Give  but  a  ray  of  peace,  that  I 

may  tread 
Without  a  fear. 


I  do  not  ask  my  cross  to  under- 
stand, 

My  way  to  sec  ; 
Better   in   darkness  just  to  feel 

Thy  hand 
And  follow  Thee. 

Joy  is  like  restless  day  ;  but  peace 

divine 

Like  quiet  night : 
Lead  me,  O  Lord,  —  till  perfect 

Day  shall  shine, 
Through  Peace  to  Light. 


A  LEGEND. 


THE    Monk     was     preaching : 

strong  his  earnest  word, 
From  the   abundance  of  his 

heart  he  spoke, 
And  the  flame  spread,  — in  ever 

soul  that  heard 
Sorrow  and  love  and  good  i 

solve  awoke :  — 
The  poor  lay  Brother,  ignorar 

and  old, 
Thanked  God  that  he  had  heard 

such  words  of  gold. 


Still  let  the  glory,  Lord,  be 

thine  alone,"  — 
So  prayed  the  Monk,  his  heart 

absorbed  in  praise  : 


BIRTHDAY  GIFTS. 


241 


"  Thine  be  the   glory  :    if  my 

hands  have  sown 
The  harvest  ripened  in  Thy 

mercy's  rays, 
It  was  Thy  blessing,  Lord,  that 

made  my  word 
Bring  light  and  love  to  every  soul 

that  heard. 


"  O  Lord,  I  thank  Thee  that  my 

feeble  strength 
Has  been  so  blest ;  that  sinful 

hearts  and  cold 
Were  melted  at  my  pleading,  — 

knew  at  length 
How  sweet  Thy  service  and 

how  safe  Thy  fold  : 
While  souls  that  loved  Thee  saw 

before  them  rise 
Still   holier    heights    of  loving 

sacrifice." 


So  prayed  the  Monk  :  when  sud- 
denly he  heard 

An     angel     speaking    thus : 
"  Know,  O  my  Son, 

Thy  words  had  all  been  vain, 

but  hearts  were  stirred, 
And  saints  were  edified,  and 
sinners  won, 

By  his,  the  poor  lay  Brother's 
humble  aid 

Who  sat  upon  the  pulpit  stair 
and  prayed." 


BIRTHDAY   GIFTS. 

FOE   A   CHILD. 

WHY  do  you  look  sad,  my  Min- 
nie? 

Tell  me,  darling,  —  for  to-day 
Is  the  birthday  of  Our  Lady, 

And  Her  children  should  be 


What?—  You  say  that  all  the 
others, 

Alice,  Cyril,  Effie,  Paul, 
All  had  got  a  gift  to  give  Her, 

Only  you  had  none  at  all. 

Well,  dear,  that  does  seem  a  pity: 
Tell  me  how  it  came  about 

That  the  others  bring  a  present, 
And  my  Minnie  comes  with- 
out. 

Alice  has  a  lovely  Banner, 
All    embroidered     blue    and 
gold  :  — 

Then  you  know  that  sister  Alice 
Is  so  clever  and  so  old. 

Cyril  has  his  two  camellias  ; 

One  deep  red,  and  one  pure 

white  : 
They  will  stand  at  Benediction 

On  the  Altar  steps  to-night. 

Efne,  steady  little  Effie, 

Stitching  many  an  hour  away, 
She  has  clothed  a  little  orphan 

All  in  honor  of  to-day. 


242 


BIRTHDAY  GIFTS. 


With  the  skill  the  good  Nuns 

taught  her 

Angela  herself  has  made 
Two  tall  stems  of  such  real  lilies, 
They  do  all  but  smell  —  and 
fade. 

Then  with   look   of  grave  im- 
portance 

Comes  our  quiet  little  Paul, 
With  the  myrtle  from  his  gar- 
den :  — 
He  himself  is  not  as  tall. 

Even  Baby  Agnes,  kneeling 
With  half-shy,  half-solemn  air, 

Held  up  one  sweet  rose  to  Mary, 
Lisping  out  her  tiny  prayer. 

Well,  my  Minnie,  say,  how  was 

it? 
Shall   I   guess?     I  think    I 

know 
All    the  griefs.     Well,    I   will 

count  them  :  — 
First,  your  rose-tree  would  not 
blow: 

Then  the  fines  have  been  so  many 
All  the  pennies  melt  away  ; 

Then  for   work  —  I   know  my 

Minnie 
Cares  so  very  much  for  play, 

That  these  little  clumsy  fingers 
Scarcely  yet  have  learnt  to  sew, 

Still  less  all  the  skilful  fancies 
Angela  and  Alice  know. 


Yet  my  Minnie  can't  be  treated 
Quite  as  Baby  was  to-day, 

When  Mamma  or  Alice  gave  her 
Something  just  to  give  away. 

Well,  my  darling,  there  are  many 
Who  have  neither  time  not 
skill, 

Gold  nor  silver,  yet  they  offer 
Gifts  to  Mary  if  they  will. 

There   are    ways  —  Our    Lady 

knows  them, 
And  Her  children  all  should 

know 

How  to  find  a  flower  for  Mary 
Underneath  the  deepest  snow ; 

How  to  make  a  lovely  garland, 
Winter  though  it  be  and  cold ; 

How  to  buy  the  rarest  offering, 
Costing  —  something  —  bu 
not  gold ; 

How  to  buy,  and  buy  it  dearly, 
Gifts  that  She  will  love  to  take; 

Nor  to  grudge  the  cost,  but  give  it 
Cheerfully  for  Mary's  sake. 

Does  that  seem  so  strange,  mj 

darling  ? 
Nay,  dear,  it  is  nothing  new  j 
All   can   give   Her  noble  pres- 
ents,— 
Shall  I  tell  you  of  a  few  ? 

What  were  those  the  Magi  offered, 

Frankincense   and   gold   and 

myrrh :  — 


BIRTHDAY  GIFTS. 


243 


Minnie  thinks  that  Saints  and 

Monarchs 
Are  quite  different  from  her  ! 

.  .  .  Sometimes  it  is  hard  to  listen 
To  a  word  unkind  or  cold 

And  to  smile  a  loving  answer ; 
Do  it  —  and   you   give   Her 
Gold. 

Thoughts  of  Her   in   work   or 

playtime, 
Those  small  grains  of  incense 

rare, 

Cast  upon  a  burning  censer, 
Ilise   in    perfumed  clouds   of 
prayer. 

There  are  sometimes  bitter  fan- 
cies, 

Little  murmurs  that  will  stir 
Even  a  loving  heart ;  —  but  crush 

them 
And  you  give  OnrLadymyrrh. 

Give  your  little  crosses  to  her, 
Which  each   day,  each  hour 
befall ; 

They  remind  Her  of  Her  Jesus, 
So  she  loves  them  best  of  all. 

Some  seem  very  poor  and  worth- 
less, 

Yet  however  small  and  slight, 
Given  to  her  by  one  who  loves 

her, 
They  are  precious  in  her  sight. 


One  may  be  so  hard  to  carry 
That  your  hands  will    bleed 
and  smart :  — 

Go  and  take  it  to  Her  Altar, 
Go  and  place  it  in  her  heart ; 

Check  your  tears  and  try  to  love 

it, 

Love  it  as  His  sacred  will : 
So  you  set  the  cross  with  jewels, 
Make  your  gift  more  precious 
still. 

There     are     souls  —  alas !    too 
many  — 

Who  forget  that  Jesus  died, 
Who  forget  that  sin  forever 

Is  the  lance  to  pierce  His  side. 

Hearts  that  turn  away  from  Je- 
sus; 

Sins  that  scourge  Him  and  be- 
tray ; 

Cold  and  cruel  souls  that  even 
Crucify  Him  day  by  day. 

Ah !  poor  sinners !  Mary  loves 

them, 

And  she  knows  no  royal  gem 
Half  so  noble  or  so  precious 
As  the   prayer  you   say   for 
them  ; 

Or  resign  some  little  pleasure, 
Give  it  her  instead,  to  win 

Help  for  some  poor  soul  in  peril, 
Grace  for  some  poor  heart  in 


244 


A  BEGGAR. 


Mercy  for  poor  sinners,  —  plead- 
ing 
For  their   souls   as  for  your 

own ;  — 

So  you  make  a  crown  of  jewels 
Fit  to  lay  before  Her  throne. 


Flowers,  —  why  I  should  never 
finish 

If  I  tried  to  count  them  too,  — 
If  I  told  you  how  to  know  them, 

In  what  garden-plot  they  grew. 

Yet  I  think  my  darling  guesses 
They  are   emblems,   and   we 
trace 

In  the  rarest  and  the  loveliest 
Acts  of  love  and  gifts  of  grace. 


Modest  violets,  meek  snow-drops, 
Holy  lilies  white  and  pure, 

Faithful  tendrils  — herbs  for  heal- 
ing— 
If  they  only  would  endure  ! 


And  they  will,  —  such  flowers 
fade  not ; 

They  are  not  of  mortal  birth  ; 
And  such  garlands  given  to  Mary 

Die  not  like  the  gifts  of  Earth. 


Well,  my  Minnie,  can  you  tell 
me 

You  have  still  no  gift  to  lay 
At  the  feet  of  your  dear  Mother, 

Any  hour,  any  day  ? 


Give   Her  now  —  to-day  —  for- 
ever, 
One  great  gift,  —  the  first,  the 

best,  — 
Give  your  heart  to  Her,  and  ask 

her 
How  to  give  her  all  the  rest. 


A  BEGGAE. 

I  BEG  of  you,  I  beg  of  you,  my 

brothers, 

For  my  need  is  very  sore ; 
Not  for  gold  and  not  for  silver 

do  I  ask  you, 

But  for  something  even  more : 
From  the  depths  of  your  hearts 
pity  let  it  be  — 
Pray  for  me. 

I  beg  of  you  whose  robes  of  ra- 
diant whiteness 
Have    been   kept   without   a 

stain  ; 
Of  you  who,  stung  to  death  by 

serpent  Pleasure, 
Found     the    healing    Ansel 

Pain: 

Whether  holy  or  forgiven  you 
may  be  — 

Pray  for  me. 

I  beg  of  yon  calm  souls  whose 

wondering  pity 
Looks  at  paths  you  never  trod : 


LINKS   WITH  HE  A  YEN. 


245 


I  beg  of  you  who  suffer  —  for  all 

sorrow 

Must  be  very  near  to  God  — 
And  the  need   is  even   greater 
than  you  see  — 
Pray  for  me. 

I  beg  of  you,  0  children,  for  He 

loves  you, 
And  He  loves  your  prayers  the 

best: 
Fold  your  little  hands  together, 

and  ask  Jesus 

That  the  weary  may  have  rest, 
That  a  bird  caught  in  a  net  may 
be  set  free  — 

Pray  for  me. 

I  beg  of  you  who  stand  before 

the  Altar, 

Whose    anointed  hands    up- 
raise 
AH  the  sin  and  all  the  sorrow  of 

the  Ages, 

All  the  love  and  all  the  praise, 
And  the  glory  which  was  always 
and  shall  be  — 
Pray  for  me. 

[  beg    of  you  —  of   you    who 

through  Life's  battle 
Our  dear  Lord  has  set  apart, 
That  while  we  who  love  the  peril 

are  made  captives, 
Still  the  Church  may  have  its 

Heart 

Which  is  fettered  that  our  souls 
may  be  set  free  — 
Pray  for  me. 


I  beg  of  you,  I  beg  of  you,  my 

brothers, 

For  an  alms  this  very  day ; 
I  am  standing  on  your  doorstep 

as  a  Beggar 

Who  will  not  be  turned  away, 
And  the  Charity  you  give  my 
soul  shall  be  — 
Pray  for  me ! 


LINKS    WITH  HEAVEN. 

OUR  God  in  Heaven,  from  that 

holy  place, 
To  each  of  us  an  Angel  guide 

has  given ; 
But  Mothers  of  dead  children 

have  more  grace,  — 
For  they  give  Angels  to  their 
God  and  Heaven. 


How  can  a  Mother's  heart  feel 

cold  or  weary 
Knowing  her  dearer  self  safe, 

happy,  warm  1 
How  can  she  feel  her  road  too 

dark  or  dreary, 
Who  knows  her  treasure  shel- 
tered from  the  storm  ? 

How  can  she  sin  ?     Our  hearts 

may  be  unheeding, 
Our   God    forgot,    our    holy 
Saints  defied ; 


246 


HOMELESS. 


But  can  a  mother  hear  her  dead 

child  pleading, 

And  thrust  those  little  angel 
hands  aside  ? 


Those  little  hands  stretched  down 

to  draw  her  ever 
Nearer   to    God    by    mother 

love  :  —  we  all 
Are  blind  and  weak,  yet  surely 

she  can  never, 

With  such  a  stake  in  Heaven, 
fail  or  fall. 


She  knows  that  when  the  mighty 

Angels  raise 
Chorus  in  Heaven,  one  little 

silver  tone 
Is  hers  forever,  that  one  little 

praise, 

One  little  happy  voice,  is  all 
her  own. 


We  may  not  see  her  sacred  crown 

of  honor, 
But  all  the  Angels  flitting  to 

and  fro 
Pause  smiling  as  they  pass,  — 

they  look  upon  her 
As  mother  of  an  angel  whom 
they  know, 


One  whom  they  left  nestled  at 

Mary's  feet,  — 

The  children's  place  in  Heav- 
en, —  who  softly  sings 


A  little  chant  to  please  them,  slow 

and  sweet, 

Or  smiling  strokes  their  little 
folded  wings  ; 

Or  gives  them  Her  white  lilies 

or  Her  beads 
To  play  with  :  —  yet,  in  spite 

of  flower  or  song, 
They  often  lift  a  wistful  look  that 

pleads 

And  asks  Her  why  their  moth- 
er stays  so  long. 

Then  our  dear  Queen  makes  an- 
swer she  will  call 
Her  very  soon  :  meanwhile  they 

are  beguiled 
To  wait  and  listen  while  She  tells 

them  all 
A  story  of  Her  Jesus  as  a  child. 

Ah,  Saints  in  Heaven  may  pray 

with  earnest  will 
And  pity  for  their  weak  and 

erring  brothers : 
Yet  there  is  prayer  in  Heaven 

more  tender  still,  — 
The  little  Children  pleading 
for  their  Mothers. 


HOMELESS. 

IT  is  cold,  dark  midnight,  yet  lis- 
ten 
To  that  patter  of  tiny  feet ! 


HOMELESS. 


247 


Is  it  one  of  your  dogs,  fair  lady, 
Who  whines  in  the  bleak  cold 

street  1 

Is  it  one  of  your  silken  spaniels 
Shut  out  in  the  snow  and  the 
sleet  ? 

My  dogs  sleep  warm  in  their  bas- 
kets, 
Safe  from  the  darkness  and 

snow ; 
All  the  beasts  in  our  Christian 

England, 

Find  pity  wherever  they  go  — 
(Those  are  only  the    homeless 

children 
Who  are  wandering  to  and  fro) . 

Look  out  in  the  gusty  darkness, — 
I  have  seen  it  again  and  again, 
That  shadow,  that  flits  so  slowly 
Up  and  down  past  the  window- 
pane  :  — 

It  is  surely  some  criminal  lurk- 
ing 
Out  there  in  the  frozen  rain  ? 

Nay,  our  criminals  all  are  shel- 
tered, 
They  are  pitied  and  taught 

and  fed  : 

That  is  only  a  sister-woman 
Who  has  got  neither  food  nor 
bed,— 


And  the  Night  cries,  "  Sin  to  be 

living," 

And  the  River  cries,  "  Sin  to 
be  dead." 

Look  out  at  that  farthest  corner 
Where  the  wall  stands  blank 

and  bare :  — 
Can  that  be  a  pack  which  a  Ped- 

ler 

Has  left  and  forgotten  there  ? 
His  goods  lying  out  unsheltered 
Will  be  spoilt  by  the  damp 
night-air. 

Nay  ;  —  goods    in   our    thrifty 

England 
Are  not  left  to  lie  land  grow 

rotten, 
For  each  man  knows  the  market 

value 

Of  silk  or  woollen  or  cotton. . . 
But  in  counting  the  riches  of  Eng- 
land 
I  think  our  Poor  are  forgotten. 

Our  Beasts  and  our  Thieves  and 

oar  Chattels 

Have  weight  for  good  or  for  ill; 

But  the  Poorare  only  His  image, 

His  presence,  His  word,  His 

will ;  — 

And  so  Lazarus  lies  at  our  door- 
step 
And  Dives  neglects  him  still. 


Cambridge  :  Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


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Procter  - 
5191  The  poems  corn- 


1873 


A*ll  i^*\0^ 


illl 

000382325 


PR 
5191 
Al 
1873 


